


The Skull and Aster

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Creepy Moriarty, Eventual Happy Ending, John in Afghanistan, M/M, Offstage violence (case related), Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Pining Sherlock, Pub AU, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes owns a pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deveron, Neat

**Author's Note:**

> For the Twelve in Twelve 2016 Pan-fandom Fanfic Challenge: one prompt per month, on the first of each month, with submissions to be posted by the last day of the month in question.
> 
> This is a bit of an experiment; let's see where it leads. The prompts will determine where the story goes, though I have a vague idea of the outline. I promise, though, we'll finish with a happy ending.
> 
> I'll include each month's prompt in the summary. Thank you for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: Write a first time fic in which the sex fails in some way … and yet does NOT signal the doom of the budding relationship.

The handsome silver haired man didn’t bother to take off his coat. He just slid onto a bar stool, tired, defeated, and waited for Sherlock’s attention. It was shortly before last call on a quiet Tuesday night; it didn’t take long to get it.

“Would you like to see the beer list?” Sherlock asked, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. This man was a regular, but something was off tonight. 

The man sighed. “I think I’m in need of something a bit stronger, actually. Scotch?”

Sherlock nodded. “Right away.”

After a brief consideration of the bottles on the shelf, he splashed two fingers of liquor into a rocks glass. He placed the glass in front of the man silently, receiving the expected nod of thanks with a quiet smile. 

“Cor, that—that’s quite good,” the man said, smacking his lips appreciatively.

Sherlock nodded absently. “Eighteen year old Deveron. You like fruit and cream, and it has a nice crisp finish. Seemed like something you’d enjoy.”

“How did you—wait.” The man looked up and met his eyes. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the barkeep who knows what everyone likes. Like a, what do you call it. Psychic.”

Sherlock shrugged. He had stopped disclaiming an extrasensory aspect to his skills long ago. It was simpler to tacitly allow an air of mystery than to explain his well-honed skills of observation and memory. He had long ago noted that the person in front of him enjoyed peach-flavoured ales on a regular basis. He didn’t understand why it was easier to believe in magic than careful observation, but he had grown resigned to it.

“Rough night, then,” Sherlock said, no question in his voice.

The man snorted. “I’ll say.” He threw back the rest of his drink and motioned for another. Sherlock nodded and complied. “A real shame,” the man continued, voice growing quiet. “Should have been one of my best nights of my life.” He stared into his glass, gaze growing distant. Sherlock cast surreptitious glances at his reflection in the large mirror behind the bar as he continued working down the closing checklist. The man never moved, except to sip his drink and sigh.

After a while, Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Last call.”

The man started. “Oh. Oh, right. Christ. I should be off. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.” He slid a couple of notes under his empty glass and slid off the stool. “Um, thanks. That was just what I needed, I guess.”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, as the man turned to leave. He stepped around the bar and stood before the man who had turned to face him, his expression curious. Sherlock looked the man up and down, focusing briefly in turn on his collar, belt loops, and shoes. His eyes narrowed as he considered the man’s left hand and the disarray of his hair. Finally, he lifted one eyebrow at the man’s right knee, and raising his eyes back to the man’s face, he said simply, “Call her again.”

The man blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Call her. Again. Soon. First thing tomorrow, in fact.”

“How did you—“

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “Not important. You’ve encountered a romantic setback tonight. Your clothes were removed earlier this evening, not by your own hand, but then they were hurriedly replaced. I hardly think you’re going to be visiting your tailor at this time of evening, that is—“ He arched a brow as he flicked a dismissive glance at the man’s suit. “—Assuming you have one. Or know they exist.”

“Hey!”

“Please, spare me your wounded pride.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, tonight you had a date. Someone you’ve admired for some time, but for some reason had never pursued. A woman, obviously.” Sherlock pursed his lips, thoughtful. “You’re a good looking enough man, and you have a steady if somewhat stressful job at which you have succeeded if not excelled, so she is either of higher professional rank, greater social standing, or more intelligence than you. The last seems the most likely, as she obviously has scientific training, probably does something medical--“

“Wait, how do you—“

Sherlock pointed to the man’s cuffs. “Obvious. So something happened that made you realize, suddenly, that this woman might be interested in you. But what?” He cocked his head, curious. 

The man blinked, but then slumped and sighed. “She told Sally,” he mumbled. “Sergeant Donovan, I mean, from Cornwall. Last week we brought Molly out to celebrate her birthday. She works at Bart’s morgue, and we run into each other from time to time. Work stuff, you know. That night she had a couple more than normal. I went to the loo, and when I got up…” He blushed. “Apparently she made an admiring comment about my, well, arse. Said she’d always rather fancied it. Sally called and told me the next day.”

“And based on her drunken admiration of your backside, you felt justified in pursuing her romantically?” Sherlock asked drily.

The man stared for a moment, before cracking a rueful grin. “Well,” he chuckled, running a hand through his silver hair, “when you put it that way...“

Sherlock was surprised to find himself smiling faintly back in reply. “Spend time here on a Saturday night, and you’ll see more serious decisions made for far worse reasons. All right, so you asked her out. It went well enough that your clothes found their way to the floor. Well done, you. Except that something happened to end it all suddenly…oh.” He narrowed his eyes. “Ah. I see.”

The man bristled. “What?” He quickly looked down his front. “You can’t possibly tell—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes again in answer.

The man glared for a moment, but then slumped into his coat with a sigh. “Yeah. You’re right.” He rubbed a hand slowly down his face. “It was just, it’s been a long time, you know? And she’s so pretty, and so clever, and she smelled so bloody good—“

Sherlock looked away, clearly uncomfortable at the turn toward sentiment. “Well, they say it happens to all men, Detective Inspector,” he said briskly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, especially at your age.”

The detective inspector stared. “I don’t know whether to take offense or start an investigation. How did you know my rank?”

Sherlock sighed. “If I am forced to roll my eyes again, Detective Inspector, I shall certainly have a seizure.” He motioned the man toward the exit. “I run a pub near Scotland Yard. I’ve already demonstrated that I’m preternaturally observant. It was a simple deduction.”

They stopped at the doorway, and Sherlock straightened and faced the clearly nonplussed Detective Inspector. “I think any woman would appreciate hearing that she is so attractive and clever that she drove a man to, well, you know. Early.” He pulled the cord on the neon “open” sign, turning it dark. “Call her,” he said softly.

The man regarded him closely. “And you think she’ll give me another chance?”

Sherlock smiled, but seemed almost wistful. “Trust me. People can be surprisingly forgiving of disappointing first times.”

============

After the pub was clean and ready for the next day’s custom, Sherlock trudged up the stairs. He was always exhausted when he worked closing, but that was rather the point. He reached the narrow landing and fumbled tiredly for his keys. A dim light crept out into the hallway until Sherlock slowly stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

In contrast to the order of the bottles and glasses downstairs, the flat was crowded and cluttered. None of the furnishings matched, and wall decor and rugs were deployed haphazardly. Bookshelves of various designs held volumes of all shapes and sizes. Thick velvet curtains hung long and casual over frayed sheers that further obscured the already hazy windows. A long, dark, weathered sofa showed signs of frequent occupation.

Across the room, a modern black leather armchair was pulled close to the fireplace, arranged such that a tall man could stretch his feet out into the room without having his back turned completely to the fire. Magazines and journals were stacked in a loose pile close by. A crocheted blanket had been thrown across its back, and an empty teacup perched precariously on its arm. A few feet away sat another armchair, this one of a more traditional design in faded plaid. Despite its wear, it was tidy, set carefully at right angles to the hearth, free of the detritus and dust of its sleeker partner.

Sherlock threw his keys into a crystal ashtray on a side table. His eyes followed a path through the tiny walk through kitchen to the closed door of his bedroom. He started to head that direction, but then, with a single resigned shake of his head, instead stumbled over to the sofa. He dropped down onto the cushion at one end, and then flopped over sideways. The perfect landing of his head on the pillow suggested this wasn’t his first time performing this manoeuvre.

The streetlights managed to force their pall through the sheers, and Sherlock’s eyes adjusted slowly to the vague yellow dimness that passes for darkness in the middle of London. The flat was almost silent in the early morning hush. He stared across the room at the two armchairs, each carefully arranged at oblique angles to the other. Slowly his breathing rate slowed, and finally he allowed his eyes to close. He wouldn’t sleep, at least not at first, but he would rest. He had found this time invaluable since coming here: a chance to process new input, to arrange observations, to complete the deductions that had been delayed by the rush of pulling pints and running to the kitchen to meet the needs of his clientele.

After a while, his mind wandered to his last customer of the evening, the silver haired policeman who had fled his new lover’s bed in shame. Sherlock’s lips quirked involuntarily. It had been such a simple set of deductions. The tiny smudge of nail enamel on the placket of his shirt. The particular crumpled hem of his trousers. Lipstick on his cuff. The familiar scent of formalin, the perfume of morgues and…

_“…biopsy jars. It’s a bloody pain in the arse,” John said. “It gets in your clothes. One eight hour shift, and you smell it for the rest of the month.” He sniffed his sleeve and sighs. “I’m for a shower, then what do you say? Take out and some telly? I’m all done in after this week.” He stretched widely, groaning for what seems like hours, before ending with a satisfied grunt._

_Behind him on the sofa, hidden behind a chemistry journal, Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, and he started to blush. He cleared his throat as quietly as he can, once, and then again. “Um, sounds great, yeah.” He was relieved that he managed to sound casual, almost indifferent. He wasn't sure how much longer he’d be able to pretend._

XXX

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. With a sigh, he unfolded from the sofa and walked into the kitchen to put on the kettle. He focused closely on the familiar ritual, all the while carefully not looking at the bathroom door.

_“Sherlock!” John’s raised voice echoed off the bathroom tile. “I forgot to get a towel, damn it. Bring me one?”_

_Sherlock stumbled as he registered the request. He righted himself with a hand to the back of his chair, and looked to the ceiling with a silent prayer for strength. “Sure,” he called back as neutrally as he could manage, grateful that his strong voice carried easily. He made his way to the linen cabinet and picked the thickest, fluffiest towel of the lot. “I’ll just leave it at the door, all right?”_

_The sound of the water slowed and cut off. “Here, I’m done, I’ll just take it.” The door opened and steam curled out. The air was suddenly rich with the scent of vanilla and almond and clean and **John**._

_Sherlock stood frozen, towel in hand, confronted suddenly with a clean, wet, naked John Watson. His eyes involuntarily followed a droplet of water as it slipped from John’s hair to slide silkily down his strong neck, hug the curve of his exquisite clavicle, and then join the rivulets streaming across the smooth plane of his chest._

_Sherlock swallowed hard, unable to look away. He became uncomfortably aware of the immediate, emphatic erection that tented his cotton pyjama bottoms. A split second later, he saw John register it as well._

_Desperation began to set in as he watched first realization, then surprise, then shock work their way across John’s expressive face. Sherlock was trying to think of something to say, something to diffuse the tension, to redirect John’s all too acute perception (damn it, damn it), when he saw one last shift in John’s face, and Sherlock’s thoughts erupted into chittering static._

_John smiled. He smiled, the bastard smiled, a slow, genuine smile that fairly beamed. He smiled. And then, then he licked his lips. He looked delighted. He looked intrigued. He looked…predatory._

_He looked…and then he touched._

XXX

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and his teacup landed on the surface of the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary. He rubbed one hand across his eyes and down his pale face. Despite himself, his fingertips lingered at the edge of his downturned mouth. He closed his eyes again, slowly this time, and sighed deeply through the slight opening of his lips.

_John licked his lips again before finally speaking. “How long?” he said, quietly._

_Sherlock swallowed, and swallowed again. “John…please. Please, I’m…”_

_“No.” John cut him off. “Don’t apologize. Just answer the question.” He took another small step forward, and Sherlock couldn't help but whimper. “How long have you wanted me, Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock stared, unable to look away. He was flushed a furious red, and wasn't only the steam that had him sweating. “Since…since the day we met.”_

_John nodded, his face unreadable. “A long time, then,” he said, matter of factly._

_Sherlock was breathing faster now, nearly panicking. “John, please. I am sorry. Don’t let it—I don’t want you to—“_

_“To what, Sherlock?” John said softly, his eyes drifting down Sherlock’s chest, his abdomen._

_“To leave,” Sherlock blurted. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and his words flooded out in an urgent rush. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, I know you don’t feel the same way, and it’s all right, I know that’s the way it has to be, but please, John—“ His voice caught. “Don’t go.”_

_“Sherlock.” John’s voice was hushed. “Look at me.”_

_Sherlock forced his eyes open. John was looking at him with kindness, with acceptance, with patience, with…affection?_

_“No, Sherlock, I mean--look at me.” John was smiling. “All of me.”_

_Sherlock swallowed again, his throat now completely dry. He blinked once, twice, and then slowly forced his gaze down John’s face, past his—oh god—tongue-moistened lips and his firm jaw, down his strong, faintly whiskered neck, to his shoulders, smooth and strong and then his chest and—Christ, Christ—one small nipple, rosy pink from the shower’s heat. He stopped there, transfixed, until he registered the twitch of John’s erect cock in his peripheral vision. He gave a small, involuntary moan, and forced his eyes back to John’s face._

_John was still smiling. “I’ve always wanted to be able to say this: Sherlock Holmes, you are a bloody idiot.” And as Sherlock’s mouth fell open, John closed the space between them and claimed his lips with his own._

XXX

Sherlock found himself shivering. The flat was chilly tonight, colder even than normal. He could have started a fire, but it was really quite late, and besides, he was tired. He dragged the crocheted blanket off the back of his chair and settled back into the sofa. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. He was uncomfortable. His shirt felt scratchy, suddenly too tight at the collar.

_John, smirking, pulled Sherlock’s worn t-shirt over his head with one easy gesture. The sheets were cool against Sherlock’s heated skin. He took a deep breath. “John, I—“_

_“No talking,” John whispered. “Just, please, tell me you want this.”_

_Sherlock surged up for another kiss. “God, yes,” he moaned against John’s lips. “But, it’s just—it’s been a long time for me, John. So long that I’ve wanted you, and so long since—” His voice trailed off for a moment. “I’ve literally dreamed of this, John, did you know? And now here you are, and you’re so--and you smell so--and you feel—John,” he said, faintly desperate. “I won’t last. It’s going to be over quickly, and I want it to be so good for you—“_

_“Shhh,” John hummed, smoothing Sherlock’s hair off his forehead, and following the motion with a gentle kiss. “Stop worrying.”_

_Sherlock nodded hesitantly, but then moaned as John again reclaimed his lips. “Christ, your mouth,” John murmured. The kiss grew heated, almost frantic, as his hands trailed slowly down Sherlock’s abdomen. Finally, with a dirty smile, he slipped his hand beneath Sherlock’s waistband. Sherlock made a garbled, unintelligible sound, and his head thumped back onto the pillow as John wrapped his hand around him._  

With his eyes still tightly closed, Sherlock whimpered. He thrashed under the blanket for a moment before rolling to his other side. His brow furrowed, and he clutched tightly at the pillow. He stayed tense as long seconds passed. Eventually, though, his hand relaxed as he slipped back into twilight slumber.

XXX

_Sherlock grimaced and slapped his hand over his eyes. “That…was…humiliating,” he said, from behind clenched teeth._

_"It really wasn’t,” said John softly, as he perched at his side._

_“It wasn’t even a minute, John. Not sixty bloody seconds.” Sherlock heaved a deep breath. “It takes a website longer to load. I’ve had sneezes last longer.”_

_John suppressed a smile. “Sherlock, stop. All right? Just stop for a minute and listen to me. I have two things to say.”_

_Sherlock pursed his lips, and nodded once, resigned._

_“Good. One…you shouldn’t be ashamed. I loved seeing you lose control like that. God, it was—it was hot. Ridiculously hot, actually.”_

_“John…” Sherlock started to whinge, but John shushed him._

_"No, really. Hear me out. You are the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, and you have the most active mind I’ve ever seen. It’s always going. It’s bloody intimidating. And I, John Watson, average bloke, just managed to completely derail it. I shut your brain down and made you a creature of pure sex and pleasure using only my hand. I feel about ten feet tall right now, and with a fourteen-inch cock besides. So, yeah. Hot.”_

_Sherlock was still covering his eyes, but was obviously listening. “All right,” he said cautiously. “You are far from ‘an average bloke,’ but assuming I grant you the remainder of your argument, what’s the other thing?”_

_“The other thing is…I’m still hard. Do you think you could help me out here?”_

_Sherlock dropped his hand. “Oh. OH. God. YES.” In one fluid movement, he pulled himself to his feet and dropped to his knees on the floor. He wrapped his hands around John’s calves and tugs him toward the edge of the bed. John looked surprised, but eagerly scooted closer. He slid his palm softly across Sherlock’s face and into his hair._

_Sherlock considered John’s erection closely, licking his lips. He took it gently in hand, and looked up at John from under his lashes as his mouth slowly moved in._

_“John.” Sherlock licked a stripe up the side of John’s cock, and John’s entire body twitched. His hand clinched involuntarily in Sherlock’s hair._

_“You should know, it’s not only my intelligence you should be taking into account right now.” Sherlock’s tongue came out and lapped at John’s frenulum briefly before withdrawing. John’s cock leapt at the touch._

_“N-no?” John managed to ask._

_“No. No, I am also obsessive. Highly obsessive.” Sherlock smiled and dipped to swipe a quick, precise tongue across John’s sac. John bit back a moan, but it obviously took effort._

_“I--oh, god, yes—I see. And this is—Jesus—relevant at this moment—ah, ah—why?”_

_Sherlock lifted his head. His eyes were twinkling. “Because I have been obsessing about sucking you off for months now.” He leaned forward and nibbled lightly at the very tip of John’s penis, stopping to collect a drop of precome from the now weeping slit with the tip of his tongue. “I’ve been observing your natural rhythms as you talk, eat, and sleep. I have been pondering what pressure you’d most enjoy, the preferred speed and angle, and the sounds you might use to encourage me. I have created a comprehensive mental portfolio of options to work through. I have creative plans. I have extensive flowcharts.” Sherlock smiled and rubbed John’s cock across his pouting lower lip. "And now...I get the chance to use them all."_

_“Oh, Christ,” John said faintly, staring._

_“And—“ Sherlock said, leaning in to mouth for a moment at the base of John’s cock. “—I have a very rapid metabolism, along with a highly effective circulatory system, so my refractory period is incredibly brief. The night, Doctor Watson—“ He leaned in for one more long lick. “—is young.” He grinned, then, before opening his mouth and starting to slowly slide down John’s hard, red cock._

_John groaned and looked to the ceiling, obviously trying to keep himself under control. “Ah, that’s a good thing,” he panted, “seeing as how I’m planning to fuck you on my armchair later.”_

XXX

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. From the sofa, he could see the light through the window starting its slow creep from streetlight yellow to foggy grey. He stretched and pushed himself up to sitting. The crocheted afghan slid off his lap to pool by his feet. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head to clear it before standing. Another stretch, and he turned toward the kitchen. A cup of tea, a quick wash, some toast, perhaps, and it would be time to start preparations for the lunch rush.

His fingertips softly brushed the arm of the plaid chair as he passed. It probably wasn’t intentional.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to 221bJen and EnduringChill for the quick beta and great ideas, and to Mydwynter, Mistyzeo and Kedgeree for the help with the title.


	2. London Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: Second chances.

The pub door was too worn by the years to move quickly, and with all the recent stormy weather, the hinges were even more swollen than normal. Still, it managed to creak open with something resembling vigour. Sherlock registered the difference in timbre, and frowned as he looked up from his ledger. It was a quiet, rainy midweek evening, and he had been enjoying the relative peace.

A thin figure barrelled through the doorway and stopped just inside, dripping water from a bright yellow rain slicker onto the dark wood floor. Sherlock was briefly put in mind of any number of heroic tales about weather-tossed sailors on fishing boats; this person would not have looked out of place with a net and harpoon close to hand. He shook his head clear, though, and as the new customer pushed back the hood of his jacket, he couldn’t help but smile. He knew that face, but he hadn’t seen those shrewd eyes flash like that in some time.

“Shezza!” The young man nearly shouted, the despised nickname for once a bright bark of joy. “You was right, man, you was right!” He threw his slicker in the general direction of a coat hook and nearly slid to the bar. “They did it, I got it, just—look!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and leaned back just a bit to get a better look at the paper that had been thrust under his nose by an eager, quivering hand.

“Let’s see, then…’Dear Mr Wiggins,’” he intones. “’It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been selected as the Thorpe Scholar in Chemistry at King’s College London. You are cordially invited to matriculate in the coming fall term. This honour carries many benefits as well as responsibilities…why, Billy. Look at you. You’re going to university.”

“I know!” Billy beamed. “Amazing, innit?”

Sherlock continued to scan the letter. “Tuition and fees paid...accommodation with other scholars in a honours house…stipend for travel to academic conferences after first year…my goodness, Billy. This is quite a comprehensive package.” He looked up from the paper into Billy’s smiling face. “They want you to come in two weeks for a special reception.” He went back to reading. “Let’s see—oh, yes. ‘Your original research, while rather unorthodox, represents exactly the type of imaginative thinking and creative problem solving that marks the thinking of the finest scholars of our age, and we at King’s College are anxious to partner with you, blah blah blah.’” Sherlock smiled. “They’re quite taken with you already, sounds like. This calls for a drink. Your usual?”

Billy nodded and climbed up onto a barstool. Sherlock pulled a pint of London Pride, and drew another inch into a half-pint glass for himself. He slid the full pint across the bar, and lifted his own glass in a toast. “To the newest Thorpe Scholar. All the best, Billy.”

Billy tilted his glass back. “And to my mentor. Couldn’t have done it without you, Shezz.” He took a drink and licked his lips. “Ah, that’s good stuff.” He stared down into the glass, and a quiet moment passed as his smile faded.

Sherlock watched him closely. “What is it, Billy?” he asked, softly. “This is what you were hoping for. A fresh start. New directions. A way to prove yourself.”

Billy nodded and pressed his lips together in a sort of rueful grin. “I know I can do the work, Shezz. That ain’t it. But—how am I gonna fit in with those blokes? I mean, look at you, all public school posh, with your words and manners. You was born to university. I ain’t that kinda guy. I mean, until you pulled me out of that house, I was nothing better than a—“

“Stop right there,” Sherlock cut in firmly. “For one thing, public school and university didn’t keep me from drugs, if you’ll note. And now here I am, running a pub, of all things. You’re brilliant, Billy. You’re the most gifted chemist I’ve ever met.”

“Exceptin’ yourself of course,” said Billy, his cheeky grin again rising to the surface.

“Well, yes, of course. That goes without saying,” Sherlock smiled back. “But you get my point. You’ll do just fine. However, there is something that will help you along.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “We need to get you some clothes.”

Billy’s eyes widened, and he looked down at his clean but shabby attire. “Cor, I hadn’t even thought of that. I don’t have much money, Shezz, how can I—“

Sherlock cut him off. “Don’t worry about that, Billy. Meet me here tomorrow at noon, and we’ll get you set up.” 

Billy flinched and frowned. “But Shezza, I ain’t a charity case.”

“No. No, you are not.” Sherlock looked away and started wiping the bar. “It’s an investment in the future. Of chemistry. That’s all.”

============

Sherlock settled into his armchair, a cup of tea close at hand. The winds of yet another winter storm howled outside the windows, but inside, the fire popped and crackled cosily. The soft strains of the Sibelius Violin Concerto in D minor flowed from wireless speakers and cushioned the room in sound.

He nibbled at a biscuit and considered the box on his lap. It was kraft paper brown, slightly wider and deeper than a regular shoebox, almost aggressively nondescript. The edges were well worn, but overall it was in good nick, obviously well maintained.

He lifted off the lid. Inside were stacks of letters and cards, carefully sorted and ordered, held together in bundles by bands or clips or in the case of the stack he pulled out now, a strand of blue ribbon.

Sherlock teased the top letter from the packet and unfolded the delicate lavender paper gently, a fond smile already playing at his lips.

 

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I write to thank you formally for your efforts in revealing the thief among my staff. I would also like to apologize for my initial resistance to your accusations. It was most inhospitable of me to escort you out the door in that fashion, and I have spent many hours regretting my hasty and impulsive words. I do hope you will forgive me. I’m certain your mother didn’t actually raise you in a barn._

_You were correct, of course: the closing bartender was helping herself to the more expensive brandies, and a significant portion of the day’s take besides. I should have researched her more thoroughly before I brought her on, though I’m not sure how I could have known to ask about the aliases. She was quite taken aback by my knowledge of her history as a seamstress and her fondness for macarons, and seemed to think I might be possessed of a type of second sight. I shall encourage this reputation, I think; perhaps my staff will think I’m always watching them in my crystal ball, and I will be able to relax in my flat with some telly and a glass of sherry from time to time._

_In any event, Mr Holmes, I am in your debt. When you are again in the neighbourhood, please visit The Smuggler’s Den and allow me to extend our finest hospitality._

_In gratitude, I remain—_

_Sincerely Yours,_

_Mrs Martha Hudson_  
_Proprietor, The Smuggler’s Den_

 

Sherlock shook his head, still smiling to himself as he traced her signature on the page. He hadn’t been at his best when he met her, fresh out of rehab and angry at life. He still couldn’t say why he had gone back, but he had. He unfolded another lavender note.

 

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_It was a pleasure to see you again, and to hear your gracious compliments and self-deprecating humour. Perhaps you don’t remember our discussion in quite the same way, but my memory is generally quite accurate. You were charming between the mouthfuls of custard tart, and did not at all disparage the pub’s décor, clientele, or menu. I am certain of this._

_I feel I should inform you that I received another visitor shortly following our pleasant luncheon. He was a slender fellow, quite tall, well dressed, and possibly handsome, though it was difficult to tell through all the sneering. He seemed quite interested in the particulars of our conversation, in what you had eaten and how you were dressed, and particularly in your deportment and general attitude. “Was he high?” was the way he put it. In any case, I wished him only the best as I sent him packing. I believe he was surprised by the lack of reception, as he backed out of the room rather quickly and was forced to send his driver back a few minutes later to collect his umbrella. The driver was a single man, older and attractive in his way, and I must say, more gracious than his employer. He promised to return on his own time for a pint and a slice of lemon tart._

_Please do visit again soon. It does an old lady good to have so many male visitors in a single afternoon._

_Warm Regards,_

_Mrs Martha Hudson_

 

Sherlock snorted. His brother had met his match that day. The driver, Alan, had become a regular at the pub, much to his employer’s chagrin. Sherlock couldn’t fault him; it really was a fabulous lemon tart. It had a permanent spot on the menu. Sherlock, of course, had started visiting for the coffee and an occasional treat. He didn’t come in often, and he kept to himself. He certainly hadn’t felt any fondness for the establishment itself, let alone its warm but formidable owner. 

He opened another letter.

 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I believe you are correct; I could use some help managing the pub. Therefore, after some consideration, I would like to accept your kind offer. Please come to supper at half six Tuesday next and we will discuss the terms of your employment._

_I will have some of that cherry cake you seem to favour on hand._

_Affectionately,_

_Mrs Hudson_

 

That had been a good dinner, Sherlock reflected, full of food and wine and laughter and planning. He had found it impossible not to be swept along by Mrs Hudson’s enthusiasm, despite his generally reserved nature. He blamed the cherry cake. It was _not_ on the regular menu; it was much too good to share.

Within a fortnight, Mrs Hudson’s neatly addressed and posted letters had become hand delivered notes, all written in elegant script on unlined purple paper. Questions regarding inventory, cleaning schedules, liquor deliveries. Reminders of holidays. Comments on staff management (“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, no one wants to be told his uncle is an arsonist, especially on the clock”). Menu suggestions. Invitations to tea. He had found to his everlasting surprise that he enjoyed having someone rely on him. He had somehow found his place, at least for a time.

Starting early in his tenure, he would find on his clipboard a few scribbled scraps of paper containing the names and numbers of eligible young women. After an air-clearing discussion over some delicious madeleines, the notes started to contain the names and numbers of eligible young men. He had shrugged; at least she had listened. He hadn’t kept any of those notes, save one.

Sherlock sighed. From midway through the stack, he pulled out a worn, well-creased note with tape along one edge.

 

_Sherlock-_

_Thank you for agreeing to move into the upstairs flat. As I’ve told you, the stairs are too hard on my hip, and there’s a ground floor flat in another building I own that I’d like to move into. I will feel better with you on hand to keep an eye on things when I’m not around. It’s a pleasant flat, I think. There’s an extra bedroom, a nice enough kitchen, and a reasonable amount of privacy. It would easily be big enough for two._

_That reminds me. That nice young blond man, John Watson, was in again this evening. He seemed quite disappointed when I told him it was your night off, but he stayed for a pint. He’s quite engaging, and certainly well fit, if you don’t mind my saying. Says he’s studying to be a doctor. He’s living with his sister, but they don’t get along and he’s looking for a flat share._

_Call him, or I will call him for you._

_XO_

_Mrs H_

 

After all this time, he still felt a little sting, but he couldn’t help but grin. He had surrendered gracefully in the face of Mrs Hudson's indomitable will. He had moved into the flat. He had called John Watson. They had become friends, and then one day John had asked for a towel. Sherlock had worked long hours at the pub, seen it become busier, and watched it grow profitable. He had smiled, and then laughed, and then glowed.

But then The Day had come. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of it in more specific terms. The Day came, and passed, and the rooms upstairs started taunting him with cold and silence. He stopped glowing, stopped laughing, and the smiles became rare. He started flinching when the telephone rang and became snappish when the post was late. His sleep grew erratic, and he didn’t stop for meals. Mrs Hudson stood by, frowning but for once blessedly silent, as he worked even longer hours at the pub. It grew even busier, became even more profitable, but Mrs Hudson just shook her head sadly.

Then, long months later, a woman walked into The Smuggler’s Den, shaking the rain off a scarlet umbrella and wearing a grin that was somehow both hesitant and eager. Mrs Hudson looked up from the bar, squeaked, and dropped a glass.

He had found the letter under the door of the flat four weeks later, attached to a thick folder of legal documents.

 

_My dear Sherlock,_

_As you will no doubt deduce from the enclosed papers, The Smuggler’s Den is now yours. I am moving to Edinburgh to be with Margaret. After all this time, she came looking for me. We were always the best of friends, and we thought nothing could come between us, but then I got married and broke her heart. Now, though, nothing stands in our way. Our plan is simple: we are going to live out our days together._

_I know you will think this decision of mine foolish. “Sentiment,” I can hear you say, as you shake your head and frown. But Sherlock, darling, sentiment isn’t a bad thing. Emotion isn’t a bad thing. Love in particular is **never** a bad thing. I know people make poor decisions in its name sometimes, but the feeling itself is never bad, never wasted. I know your arse of a brother would argue differently, but I am older and wiser. Besides, in your heart, you know better. I know you do._

_Take the pub now and make it your own. Keep it warm, though, and welcoming. Keep the food comforting. Let the music play softly and Sherlock, no matter what, keep a candle burning in the window. If kind, patient love can find a tired old lady, it can find a mind and heart as fine as yours._

_He’ll come back. I know it. He will come back, and you will find your way together. But in the meantime, the pub is yours._

_You should change the name. My late husband named it, and I always hated it._

_Love always,_

_Martha_

 

Sherlock folded the single page carefully and slid it back into its faded envelope. After gathering the stack of letters and tying the blue ribbon into a perfect bow, he placed them gently back into the box. However, before he could get the lid back on, he was distracted by a small fabric-swathed packet. He drew it out and gingerly folded back the cloth to reveal a stack of postcards. Despite the special wrapping, the cards themselves were worn and dirty, roughened at the edges both from long transit and repeated handling. He traced the lettering across the front of the top one. “Greetings from Exotic Afghanistan!” it read, over a picture of endless desert and one very grumpy-looking camel. He chuckled at the camel’s expression, just like he had all the times before.

He usually waited until Friday night to reread the cards, but the rain was really coming down now, and the wind was howling. Ready solace was at hand, and where was the harm? Settling back into his chair, he took a sip of his tea, flipped the cards over, and began to read.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to 221bJen and EnduringChill for their thoughtful beta services.


	3. Irish Coffee (12 year old Jameson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: write a coffeehouse AU.
> 
> (This was a bit tricky, since the whole premise of this is a pub AU of a coffeehouse fic, but, well, here it is.)

“Get _out_ ,” Sherlock growled, pointing emphatically at the door with an outstretched arm. “I am not in the mood for whatever game you’re here to play. Take your ridiculous umbrella and your overstuffed waistcoat and your receding hairline and _go_.”

The tall, precisely dressed man standing in front of him arched an eyebrow and sniffed. “Manners, little brother. Is this how you treat all your customers?”

“You are not a customer, you are an irritant. You are an abrasive piece of grit, and I don’t have time to shake you out of my shoe today. Or ever. Leave. Now.” Sherlock stomped his foot and pointed at the door again, but the man smiled coolly and turned to go in the opposite direction. The tip of his umbrella tapped a counterpoint to the deliberate click of his heels as he moved toward the bar. He wiped a finger along the brass rail, and checked his fingertip for dust.

“I see you’ve updated the lighting,” he said, smirking, gesturing vaguely at the accent lights above the bar. “Energy efficient _and_ environmentally sound. You’re bringing your little warren into the twenty-first century, one step at a time. I rather approve. Tell me, will you be adding those elegant hand dryers in the lavatories?”

Sherlock clutched at his hair in frustration. “Mycroft. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Why. Are. You. Here.”

Mycroft smiled blandly. “I have news,” he said. “But first, I rather fancy a coffee.”

Sherlock’s head shot up. “News, or _news_?”

Mycroft shook his head and perched on a wooden chair next to a small table. “Coffee first.”

Sherlock stared for a long minute, quickly scanning Mycroft’s body from head to toe. Whatever he saw there allowed him to relax, ever so slightly, and he finally nodded and slipped behind the bar. The clatter of cups and spoons echoed around the room. After a couple of minutes, he approached the table with a tray holding two tall glass mugs, filled to the top with a layered beverage.

Mycroft sighed. “I didn’t say _Irish_ coffee.”

“No, it’s true, you didn’t. But if you’re here, I need a drink.” Sherlock placed one of the glasses before his brother with exaggerated care.

Mycroft took a sip and shook his head ruefully. “You have twenty different whiskeys at hand, but you reached for the Jameson. Really, Sherlock.” He took another sip and winced. “You could have at least used the eighteen year old. It has a smoother finish." 

“My apologies to your delicate palate.” Sherlock settled into the chair opposite and took a long pull from his own glass. He wiped the cream from his lip and fixed his brother with a steely stare. “Tell me.”

Mycroft looked away and seemed to gather his thoughts. Sherlock frowned as he watched him prepare himself. When Mycroft finally spoke, though, his voice betrayed no emotion.

“As you know, one of my duties is monitoring military budgets and efficiency. We have seen a marked increased in insurgent actions of late, which frankly we expected with the current global political situation. However, it has forced us to reapportion our resources, and there was one change I felt would interest you.” He set down his drink and tapped his lips delicately with a serviette, still not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “Specifically, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers are being sent back to Afghanistan. They will be shipping out in thirty days.” His face stayed carefully neutral. “All personnel are covered by the order, so this includes Captain Watson.” 

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. “They’ve only been back six months. Goddammit, Mycroft.” He clenched his hands into fists and stared at the table for a long moment, processing the news, before looking up at Mycroft with narrowed eyes. “Thirty days. You wouldn’t have come this promptly just to tell me that. There’s more, isn’t there.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together and hesitated before nodding. “It seems that this time, Captain Watson has requested reassignment to a combat unit. Apparently he was frustrated by the limitations of his responsibilities at the base hospital, and feels he could accomplish more in the field.” He shifted in his chair, tightening his grip on the handle of his umbrella. “A brave man, your doctor,” he murmured, almost an afterthought, as he finally cast a glance in Sherlock’s direction.

“He’s not my doctor,” Sherlock replied automatically, his lips barely moving. His eyes were vacant now as he processed the news, his hands unmoving on the table.

Mycroft observed him from the corner of his eye for a moment, and then seemed to come to some decision. He cleared his throat. “The request hasn’t been approved yet,” he said speculatively, as he examined his umbrella handle. “It _could_ be denied.”

“You can’t,” Sherlock said flatly. He shook himself and took another drink, longer this time. “It’s his career, Mycroft. He made his choice.”

Mycroft shrugged. “He’d never have to know.”

“No. You—just, no.” Sherlock stood quickly and started toward the bar, but then stopped and swayed. Mycroft’s eyes widened in alarm, but Sherlock stumbled backward, slumped back into his chair, and waved him off. For a moment, he hid his eyes with one hand, taking in a slow, shaking breath. Then, with a trembling hand, he reached for his glass.

Mycroft watched Sherlock take a long sip of his coffee. “Perhaps…” he said, carefully. Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “It might be best for you to retire to your flat, and get some rest before the evening rush. This seems to have been a bit of a shock.” He hesitated. “I could—assist you, if you’d like.” 

Sherlock stared up at him for a long moment, but then slowly shook his head. “Thank you, no. I appreciate the offer, but I think it would be best for you to leave me alone.” Mycroft watched with concerned eyes as Sherlock shifted his gaze to the windows and the street beyond. “I’ll be fine. I just need some fresh air.”

 

============

 

Sherlock crossed the busy street and made his way down the sidewalk. He didn’t notice the other people as they swerved around him. Normally he walked rapidly, with purpose, but tonight he was tired, worn down with sorrow and fear. He had been walking for hours. 

John was going back to Afghanistan.

He cut through an alleyway, his mind miles away. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, he thought. People in the army went where they were needed, and they were needed where there was conflict. That was rather the point of an army. What was important was that soldiers had excellent equipment. Weaponry. Ammunition. Armour.

Armour. They needed armour. _Christ_.

Sherlock emerged into the street, made a sharp left at the next corner, and stopped short. He hadn’t consciously decided on a destination, but right there in front of him stood the Resuscitation Coffeehouse.

_“It’s a stupid name,” Sherlock huffed, pulling out mugs in the kitchen and flipping the kettle switch with an angry flourish. John leaned in the doorway, watching him with an expression of absolute fondness._

_“Oh, come on. It’s_ funny _, Sherlock.” He grinned. “They’re near the medical school. They sell stimulants. It’s genius.”_

_“I get the joke. That’s not the point.” Sherlock nearly slammed the refrigerator door. “It’s foolishness. Get a part-time job in a lab or as a tutor, if you must. Working in a coffeehouse is beneath you.”_

_“Hey, now. A barista is the most important person in the world to a med student two hours before a Physiology exam. It’s my big chance to be a hero.” His eyes softened. “It’s just a job, Sherlock. You don’t have to be jealous.” He pulled Sherlock to him then, reaching up to brush his thumb along one long cheekbone. “The hours work with my schedule, and besides, I really need the money. I’m almost through my savings. Medical school isn’t cheap, you know.”_

_Sherlock leaned into his touch. “But you don’t have to do this. I’ll ask Mycroft, we’ll--“_

_“No.” John’s voice stayed gentle, but there was no mistaking his determination. “You’re not touching your trust fund, and you’re not asking your brother for_ anything _. Not for me. I can do this. I will do this.”_

_Sherlock drew in breath to argue, but suddenly John’s mouth was on his, and then, as always, words failed him._

 

XXX

 

The cappuccino was thick and rich, and Sherlock hadn’t missed either the heart in the foam or the hopeful wink of the barista ( _guitar player, bisexual_ ). Flattering, he supposed, though ultimately pointless. He took a sip of his drink and smiled wistfully. He had always argued that the coffeehouse’s espresso lacked sweetness, but as John would always reply, nothing could ever be sweet enough for Sherlock.

He leaned back into his chair and let his eyes wander. The coffee wasn’t all that had been left unchanged. The music was still too loud. The tables still wobbled on the uneven slate floor. The copper fittings had oxidised a bit, though that was probably intentional. He noted that someone had replaced the old cartoon-like posters with large, stylized black and white photos of antique medical equipment. They looked good, actually, modern and almost clever. He wondered idly if John would like them.

He’d been out walking for longer than he had realised; it was quite late, nearly closing time. The only two other customers, both second year medical students ( _from Scotland, old friends, and definitely not romantically involved, though not for lack of wanting on one’s part_ ), packed up their books, and the barista started to wipe down the espresso machine. Another worker came in from the back and after a politely murmured “please don’t rush, sir” in Sherlock’s direction, started flipping the chairs over onto the tables.

_“Oi! Boyfriend’s here, Watson,” the tall spotty one called to the back. He nodded in recognition of Sherlock’s thanks and continued stacking the chairs, working quickly._

_John popped in from the back room and flashed Sherlock a welcoming smile. “Hey, I told you, I’ve got that, Nigel. You covered for me the other night when I had special plans.” John winked at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled down at his shoes, blushing. “Take off, man.”_

_Spots grinned and started untying his apron. “Don’t have to tell me twice, Watson. Girlfriend’s up from Cambridge.” He threw the apron to John, who caught it deftly, and was out the door and down the street before his “Night, gents!” had faded from the air._

_John walked over to lock the door. “This is a nice surprise. Didn’t expect to see you until I got home tonight,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled the blinds down. “Slow night at the pub?”_

_Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Mrs Hudson sent me out to get lemons from Sainsbury’s, and then told me to take the rest of the night off.” He dropped his messenger bag on a table, grabbed the broom from behind the counter, and started sweeping. “I picked up some of those biscuits you like, the ones with the things.”_

_John made a pleased sound. “Thanks, love,” he said, patting Sherlock on the backside as he passed by._

_“Oh, and Mrs Hudson sent an envelope,” Sherlock continued. “She said you had been expecting something important, and it came today. She thought you wouldn’t want to wait.” Sherlock stooped to pick up a dropped spoon, and turned to see John suddenly motionless and pale, his eyes squeezed tight._

_“John? Are you all right?” Sherlock said urgently, dropping the spoon and the broom and rushing to his side._

_John cleared his throat and nodded once, slowly, his eyes still closed. He started to speak, but he had to stop to swallow hard. “I’m fine,” he finally managed to get out, his voice thin. “Where’s the envelope?”_

_Sherlock frowned at him, his eyes full of concern. “In my bag. I’ll get it. You should sit.”_

_John did as he was told and watched with wide, solemn eyes as Sherlock brought him the bag. He hesitated for only a moment before unfastening the clasps and pulling out a large white packet._

_“No return address,” Sherlock noted. “John, what--“_

_John took a deep breath. “I asked Mrs Hudson to make sure you didn’t see this before I did. She told me she’d put it in a plain wrapper if she had to. I thought she was kidding.” He looked up toward the ceiling, and Sherlock was shocked to see the hint of tears in his eyes. “I didn’t want to do this here,” he whispered, almost to himself._

_“What. Do what,” Sherlock said flatly, his eyes wide in panic. “John. Please. You’re scaring me.”_

_John took in another, longer breath, and reached for one of Sherlock’s hands. “Sherlock, love—“ He looked him in the eye._

_“I’ve joined the army,” he said._

 

XXX

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at the barista, momentarily confused. “Sorry, what?” he asked, shaking his head a bit to clear it.

“Closing time, sir,” the barista repeated with a polite smile.

“Oh, right,” Sherlock said, with an air of faint surprise. “I’ll just—right.” He quickly swallowed the rest of his drink and rose to his feet. With a last nod of thanks, he walked to the door. It still creaked as it always had. The lights clicked off behind him as he paused to consider the best route home.

Even though he had buttoned his jacket, he still felt a chill as he reached the corner.

_The traffic slowed Sherlock at the corner, affording John an opportunity to catch up. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm from behind and whirled him around. “Come back,” he panted. “Please, Sherlock. We have to talk about this.”_

_Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and looked down at John with angry, narrowed eyes. “Why? What will it change?” He jerked his head toward the coffee shop. “You’ve already decided. You’re already_ committed _. My god,” he said, running his hands down his face. “I should have seen this coming.”_

_John tried to catch his eyes. “Seen what coming?”_

_Sherlock huffed and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You leaving me, of course.”_

_“Jesus, Sherlock.” John winced and reached for Sherlock’s hand. “I’m not leaving you.”_

_“Really?” Sherlock jerked his hand away. His eyes blazed. “Because there’s a very official looking piece of paper with your name on it that says otherwise.”_

_John closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fists. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d take it badly.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes were red now, but he still managed a convincing sneer. “Very good, John. You’re a genius. You’ll make general in no time. Now.” He took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me.”_

_John looked up at him with mild panic. “Where are you going?”_

_“Anywhere but here,” Sherlock said icily, as he turned away._

_“Wait,” John blurted, taking a step after him. “You can’t—Sherlock, you can’t—don’t get high. Promise me.”_

_Sherlock turned back slowly and precisely on his heel and took a step that crowded him into John’s space, their chests nearly touching. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” he hissed, eyes suddenly manic. “Do you hear me? You don’t even get a vote. We don’t have that kind of relationship.” He drew the last word out like a curse. “Not anymore.” He stepped back and blinked, and just like that, his veneer of control was back in place. “Actually, it would appear we never did. My mistake.” And with that, he turned and stalked away, pretending not to hear John’s muffled sob behind him._

 

XXX

 

The pub was closed now, and the street was quiet. Sherlock stepped inside and bolted the door behind him. The bar refrigerator was humming loudly, and from the kitchen, he could hear the faucet dripping. He really needed to replace that fitting.

There was no sound from the rooms upstairs, but then, that was to be expected.

Someone had remembered to leave the light on in the staircase that led to the upstairs flat, and Sherlock supposed he should be grateful. He wasn’t, but he figured knowing he should be had to count for something. It didn’t really matter; he knew the stairs so well, he could have found his way in the dark.

Upstairs, in the flat, he had left the drapes open, and everything glowed in streetlamp yellow.

 _The light from the hallway cast John in relief as he stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking into the living room’s eerie near-darkness._ _He had toed off his shoes and was just starting to reach for the light switch when Sherlock stirred in the chair by the cold fireplace._

_“Why?” Sherlock asked quietly into the darkness._

_John tensed at the sound, but relaxed when he recognised Sherlock’s supine silhouette. “Needed the money,” he said simply._

_Sherlock slowly pulled himself up to sitting. “You’ve been working every minute you can. You never spend a dime. What happened to your savings?” he asked, resignation in his voice._

_John turned away from the light switch, and Sherlock briefly felt grateful that he’d left them in shadows. “I used it to pay for my sister’s stint in rehab,” John said, his voice tired and sad. “I knew what it meant when I did it, but I didn’t think I had a choice. I had to take care of her, Sherlock. She’s my responsibility.”_

_“And what am I?” Sherlock whispered into the darkness._

_John just hung his head. A full minute passed._

_“How long ago?” Sherlock finally asked._

_John rubbed his eyes. “Six months or so.” Sherlock’s sharp gasp made him freeze, but after a few seconds, he drew in a shaky breath and continued. “Once I signed, I started getting a military stipend, and they helped me get a university scholarship as well. It’s how I was able to finish my courses. I was hoping for a bit more time, but—“ He sighed. “They say they need me as soon as possible. I’ll be off to Sandhurst in a month.”_

_“Six months,” Sherlock mused. “And I didn’t see it. Mrs Hudson knew, but I had no idea.” He shook his head. “I’ve been an idiot.”_

_“You’re not an idiot. You had no reason to expect it, and I didn’t want you to know.” John crossed the room to stand before Sherlock’s chair. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly._

_Sherlock sat looking up at him, considering. “You’re not, though,” he said slowly. “Some part of you is looking forward to this. You_ want _this. It excites you.”_

_John blew out a long breath. “No, Sherlock, I—“ He trailed off, thinking. “Maybe,” he said at last, defeated. “I don’t know.”_

_“Yes, you do. It’s an adventure. A challenge. A chance to prove yourself, see the world.” He motioned around the flat. “Not enough excitement ‘round the local for such a bright young man, I guess,” he said with some bitterness._

_“It’s nothing like that,” John said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself. This has nothing to do with you.”_

_Sherlock coughed a short laugh. “Oh believe me, John, I know.” He pushed himself up to standing, and John took an involuntary step back. “This is one hundred percent about_ you _.” He turned and walked to the windows. “I would have done anything for you, you know,” he said calmly, looking down at the street. “Used my trust, asked Mycroft for help, worked a second job. I’ve never wanted to take care of anyone, but I wanted to take care of you. I would have given you_ everything _.” He swallowed once, hard. “But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Because you don’t want it. You don’t want me.”_

_John groaned. ”Christ, no, Sherlock, it’s not like that.” He started to walk toward where Sherlock stood at the window, but Sherlock tensed, and John hesitated, uncertain. “I just have to do this myself,” he whispered. “It won’t mean anything unless I earn it on my own. Don’t you understand?”_

_Sherlock nodded. “Seems to me you’d still be a doctor, but I’m sure it’s as you say,” he said, distantly now. “In any case, there’s nothing for it now. You’ll be bound for greener pastures soon enough.” He turned and flashed a brief false smile to where John stood motionless, watching him with wide eyes. “Mrs Hudson wants to throw you a party with the staff and some of the regulars. She said she’d make those tarts you favour. I promised I’d mention it, so be sure to talk to her about it, won’t you?”_

_John took a tentative step toward him. “Sherlock…” He bit his lip. “Are we still—you know? Together?”_

_Sherlock stared at him, his face full of exhaustion and sorrow. “Go to bed, John,” he said, finally. “You have to work in the morning.”_

 

XXX

 

Despite the cappuccino, Sherlock felt drained. His feet hurt, and his ears were still stinging from the cold. He considered actually going to bed for once, but instead, almost without thinking, he found himself in the kitchen making a strong cup of tea.

_Sherlock sat in his armchair and stared down at the tea as it steeped, turning darker in the cup with every passing moment. His eyes were sad. The door to the upstairs bedroom opened and closed, and he heard footsteps on the stairs, but he didn’t look up._

_“Sherlock?” came John’s voice softly from the hallway. “It’s time. I’m leaving.”_

_Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t even blink._

_“Sherlock?” A bit more loudly now. John peeked in through the doorway. “Did you hear me? I’m—I’m heading out.”_

_Sherlock nodded faintly. “Yes, John. I heard you.”_

_John stepped into the room and dropped his duffle bag. “Are you coming down to say goodbye?”_

_Sherlock made a little quirk of his lips. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d rather not.”_

_“Right.” John nodded, looking away. “Can’t blame you really. Mrs Hudson was already crying at breakfast. Something about the end of an era, or some such. Bound to be a big scene. You’re right to miss it.”_

_Sherlock hummed neutrally in response._

_John looked down at his shoes. “So, this is it, then.”_

_“Yes.” Sherlock slowly raised his eyes, and John flinched at the pain he saw there. Sherlock’s voice, however, was level. “Nice sunglasses.”_

_“Hm? Oh, right. Thanks.” John pulled them out of his shirt pocket and looked at them with a rueful smile. “Gift from the gang down at the coffeehouse. Not what I would have chosen, maybe, but, well. It was a nice thought.”_

_“Ah. Yes.” Sherlock nodded. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate them, when you're out in the desert and all.”_

_John just swallowed and slipped the glasses back into his pocket. He shuffled his feet and started to speak, but a taxi horn sounded from the street. Both men turned to look at the window, and an uneasy silence hovered for a moment, until Sherlock finally stirred. “Well.” He stood and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I suppose that’s our cue.” His voice was still calm, but his eyes were red rimmed and bright. “Be well, John.”_

_John nodded, biting his lip. “You, too.” He picked up his bag and turned to leave. Before he stepped out the door, he stopped and spoke quietly over his shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”_

_Sherlock looked to the ceiling and swallowed. “You made your choice, John, and for good reasons. I’ll be fine. Now, go.” He smiled faintly. “Go have your adventure.”_

_“I don’t want to leave you. This isn’t easy,” John said, still facing away. “Don’t ever think this was easy,” he finished in a whisper._

_Sherlock choked back a sob. “God, I know,” he whispered back._

_They stood frozen for another moment, until the taxi sounded its horn again, shattering the silence. John slipped on his sunglasses. “I’ll be off, then,” he said, suddenly resolute. With one determined nod, he stepped through the door, leaving it open behind him. Sherlock stood staring at the empty space and listened as John made his way down the stairs and out of the pub. He heard the voices saying goodbye at the kerb, heard the taxi door slam and the car pull away, and then finally, he listened to the sound of near absolute silence._

_Until his mobile pinged with a text._

I’ll keep an eye on him, little brother. -MH

_Sherlock wiped his eyes and reached for his tea with one hand, typing with the other._

You’d better. -SH

_He set the phone down on the table, but it immediately chimed again._

I promise I’ll write. –JW

_Sherlock clutched the phone tightly._

You’d better. -SH

 

XXX

 

The tea had grown cold, and Sherlock had at long last fallen asleep in his habitual position on the sofa. On the table in front of him was a worn atlas opened to a map of Afghanistan. The pages bore faint pencil marks; circles around city names, lines drawn through the expanse of desert, dates in the margins. Beside it was a notebook, unlined and of good quality paper, opened to a page that was blank except for two words. 

“ _Dear John_ ,” it read.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to EnduringChill, 221bJen, and Kedgeree for their outstanding beta services.
> 
> Apologies for the lateness of the chapter (this is the March prompt). I was delayed by another fic commitment and 221b Con. I should be back on schedule with April up by the end of the month.


	4. Hermitage Marquise de la Tourette 2005

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: Visual. "From these ten pictures, pick three to inspire your story."
> 
> I used them all, though some more than others. The photos are linked in the notes below.
> 
> Please note that I have updated the tags: offscreen violence, case related.
> 
> Please check out the other challenge entries for this and all the previous months at http://twelve-in-twelve-2016.tumblr.com/. This is a multi-fandom challenge and there is some seriously good fic over there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click here to see the photos and the prompt.](http://twelve-in-twelve-2016.tumblr.com/post/142064578745/april-prompt-this-months-prompt-is-visual-from)

“You look like hell,” Lestrade said bluntly. “When was the last time you slept?”

Sherlock sighed. “With all due respect, Detective Inspector, it’s not your concern.” He motioned the man to a bar stool with a tired smile. “I appreciate your worry, but all is well. What can I pour for you? Scotch?”

Lestrade dropped his briefcase and slid onto the chair. “Hmm, not today. How about a glass of red wine?”

Sherlock blinked in faint surprise. “Really?”

“Why? Don’t I seem the type?” the DI shot back.

“No,” Sherlock answered blandly.

The man stared at Sherlock for a moment before he slumped and ran a hair through his hair. “You’re right, I’m not. Only the girlfriend likes red wine, so I’m trying to get used to it.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded, considering. “I think I know just the thing, then. Something accessible, but still…” He turned and looked through the bottles on the shelves, lighting up a bit when he found what he was looking for. “Here. You’ll like this.” He slid a glass across the counter. The wine caught the light, and despite himself, the Detective Inspector hummed with pleasure.

“Beautiful colour, isn’t it,” he mused.

Sherlock smiled. “I would think you see enough red fluid at work, Detective Inspector.”

“Christ, don’t remind me.” Lestrade took a small sip, and then another slightly longer one. “That’s…that’s quite nice, actually.” He looked pleased. “I don’t usually like the stuff, but this—“ he took another drink. “I could get used to this.”

Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgment and held the bottle up to show him the label. “I’m glad you like it. The Delas winery is a favourite of mine. I find their Syrahs quite palatable. This one is the 2005 Hermitage Marquise de la Tourette. It’s known for its fruity finish, so I thought it would appeal to you.”

Lestrade took another sip and inspected the bottle. “French, then.” He shook his head ruefully. “I have no idea what any of this shite means.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, it comes with time. You have to work on it, though it’s easy enough to bluff if you’ve read a bit. But I suspect you’re highly motivated. Girlfriend, now, is it?”

“Ah, shut it, you.” Lestrade looked around, and then leaned across the bar, lowering his voice. “I never got to tell you, but you were right, you know. I went over to her place with flowers the next morning, and—“ He flushed and looked down at the bar with a shy smile. “All was forgiven. She actually said she was flattered.”

Sherlock nodded, smiling faintly with satisfaction. “And now, here you are.”

“And now, here I am. Drinking red wine and hopelessly baffled by a case.” Lestrade held up a folder. “I don’t suppose you know anything about photography?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Try me,” he said.

“Got a strong stomach?”

Sherlock lifted a single sardonic brow in answer.

Lestrade led the way to one of the tables. He wiped a hand across the surface to check for cleanliness, and Sherlock huffed with mild offence. With an apologetic nod, Lestrade spread the photos out. “It’s a serial killer case.”

Sherlock glanced quickly over the photos. “These aren’t crime scenes. They look like stock photos. Calendar shots, or greeting cards, or something.”

Lestrade hummed. “Yeah, it’s strange. In the past three months, we’ve found four victims. All were killed with a single well-placed gunshot. They probably didn’t even see it coming.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Sherlock muttered. “Most serial killers have some sort of ritual, or at least prefer something more hands-on.”

Lestrade looked at him in surprise. “Should I ask how you know that?”

“Oh. Um, crime novels.” Sherlock made an encouraging gesture, his gaze still on the pictures. “Carry on.”

“As it happens, there _is_ a ritual. It’s just post-mortem. Every one of the victims has had their eyes removed after they died. He’s very neat about it, but, yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Gruesome, like I said.”

“Any connection among the victims?”

“Nothing yet. God knows we’ve been looking.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “And the photos?”

“Arrive at Scotland Yard two days after a body is discovered. The bastard is taunting us, only he’s being right vague about it.” Lestrade sighed deeply. “We figured he was trying to say the victims saw something they shouldn’t, something connected to these photos. Or it could be something else, a code hidden in the photos or, who knows. We can’t figure it out.”

Sherlock hummed and pursed his lips, thoughtful. “There are ten photos here. You said there were four bodies.”

Lestrade nodded. “After the third one, we very quietly put the word out to other agencies. These—“ he said, indicating the top six photos, “—came from Scotland, two from Edinburgh and four from Glasgow. The Edinburgh ones were both sent in a single week six years ago. The Glasgow ones trickled in over three years, but the last one was two years ago. They weren’t ever linked to specific murders in either country. Now these are the ones the killer sent us.” He spread out the last four photos and handed Sherlock a pair of nitrile gloves. “I’m baffled, I have to say.”

Sherlock quickly pulled on the gloves and picked up the last photo, turning it over and inspecting it closely. He then picked up the rest of the photos in turn, subjecting each to the same scrutiny. Lestrade watched him the entire time, his expression one of patient bemusement. Finally Sherlock stepped back and drew a deep breath.

“The killer is most likely a male, in his early to mid twenties, originally from Scotland. He’s currently enrolled in a doctorate program in a scientific discipline, and I would expect he’s getting close to defending his thesis. He’s romantically unattached and has been treated in a clinical setting for an anxiety disorder. He’s probably been on medication for his condition, though he hasn’t been especially compliant with the prescription.”

Lestrade stared at him, open-mouthed. “How did you—where do—Who--“

Sherlock handed him his glass. “Have a drink and try again, Detective Inspector,” he said, amused.

Lestrade took a gulp of wine. “How in the hell did you get all of that from these images?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “The images themselves aren’t the key to finding him. There might be some meaning to them, but as I said, they’re stock photos. You can figure all that out later. What’s interesting right now is the paper itself.” Sherlock picked up one of the photos and turned it over. “Look. This isn’t regular photo paper.”

“It isn’t?” Lestrade squinted at the sheet.

“No. This is a very particular kind of paper, scientific grade, generally used to print photographs for use in journal articles or books. Every lab has at least one. They’re mostly used for images from scanning electron microscopes.” Sherlock nodded at the table. “My guess is all of these were printed in SEM labs. However, the paper is from different manufacturers. The postmarks are local, yes? So he’s doing this as he goes along, printing them out wherever he’s working. He probably prints them out right before a murder. You could probably figure out how he’s choosing his victims based on the images, but--” he shrugs. “I’d chase the paper first, and leave the rest of the analysis to the prison psychologist.”

“That’s just…how would you know that about the printers?”

“I studied chemistry, and I don’t miss much. Now, look at the pattern. Edinburgh, six years ago. One year off, and then Glasgow. Intermittent activity there for three years, and then silence for two. And now, London. Major scientific universities in all those cities.”

“I’ll be damned—“

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. “He most likely started off close to home, probably because of the anxiety, though possibly due to some familial responsibility. He graduated Edinburgh six years ago, moved to Glasgow for his Masters’, and then found the courage to move to London for his doctorate. He’s ambitious, but the anxiety holds him back. He kills when he gets too stressed, graduation, major exams. Defending a thesis is about as stressful as it gets.” He bit his lip, considering. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if the last Glasgow murder was a relative, someone for whom he’d been responsible. Maybe he freed himself of a burden in order to move to London. Look at cold cases featuring geriatric or seriously ill victims; you might track him down that way. If you don’t find it in Glasgow, look at the Edinburgh ones.”

Lestrade drained his wine glass and handed it back to Sherlock, who absently set it aside.

“Here in London, look at the universities with solid science programs – King’s College, UCL. He’s probably studying microbiology or physical chemistry, possibly pharmacology. The research in those disciplines tend to rely heavily on SEM, so the students spend long hours alone in the labs. It would be an easy matter to find out everyone who booked the scope at the right times. He’s panicking now; he’s about to finish his education and probably doesn’t know what he’s going to do next.” Sherlock peered down at the photos, tapping absently on the edge of the table. “He wants to get caught, I think,” he murmured. “See how different this last photo is?” He held up a picture, a shot of a girls’ sports team exuberantly celebrating a successful play on the field. “You can actually see the faces, real emotion here—he’s on the verge of escalation.” His eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. “You have to find him quickly, Lestrade.”

“Greg. Call me Greg.” Lestrade held out his hand. “And that was absolutely astonishing.”

Sherlock looked down with surprise, and then slowly took his hand. “Sherlock, then.”

Greg grinned and pumped his hand. “I’m going to go make some calls, get things in motion. I’ll let you know what I find out. Maybe—maybe I could bring you some other cases to look over some time.”

Sherlock cautiously smiled back. “I’d like that.”

“Great. I’ll leave you my number.” Greg gathered up the photos and shrugged on his jacket. “Until then, get some rest,” he said with a wink. “You really do look like hell.”

============

Sherlock locked the door behind the last customer of the evening and nearly skipped up the stairs to the flat, still energised. He’d worked hard this evening, taken good care of a larger than normal weeknight crowd, but he’d been distracted by the memory of his discussion with Lestrade. He marvelled at the memory of it, the way the deductions had almost crackled with electricity as they came to mind, and how Lestrade had smiled at him with something like approval. It was invigorating. It had been almost—fun.

It had certainly been a relief from the worry he seemed to carry in his bones these days. Lestrade had been right; he couldn’t remember the last time he had really slept. There hadn’t been much news out of Afghanistan. The silence was deafening, and not at all conducive to peaceful slumber.

But now he finally had a distraction: the puzzle of the photos themselves. He’d made light of their importance to Lestrade, but he was determined to uncover their meaning. All night, he’d kept coming back around to them, trying to find some sense in the pattern, uncover a theme. He’d considered the presence or absence of people. Some of the pictures had books in them, some didn’t. And the light, why all the light? All the images were fairly dripping with it. He was a little frustrated, to tell the truth, but he knew with enough time and focus, he could put it all together.

He sat down with a cup of tea, closed his eyes, and started flipping through the photos in his memory. Someone reading a book in a meadow…a dog posed next to a picnic basket…the Eiffel Tower…

_“Wait, where?” John looked up at him in disbelief._

_“Paris, John. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Large city in France, has that big metal tower thing.” Sherlock waved a negligent hand. “Lauded for its pleasant climate in April, although that is entirely false, it’s cold and rainy as hell. Surly citizens. Croissants. Couture. Paris.”_

_“I’ve heard of it, Sherlock. Don’t be a dick. It’s just—your parents are inviting me to their anniversary party. In Paris.”_

_“Summoning you, more like.”_

_“Right. Where is the party?”_

_“At my grandmother’s house, just outside the city. We’ll be staying there, too. It’s very large. And, um, rather nice.”_

_“So. A family estate. In France. Seems like a big deal, is all.”_

_Sherlock swallowed and looked away. “It is, a bit,” he said quietly._

_John narrowed his eyes. “You’re nervous,” he said, flatly. “Why are you nervous? Sherlock…” He bit his lip. “Are you ashamed of me?”_

_“No! Christ, no. If anything, I’m ashamed of my family.” He stood and began to pace. “This party has become something of an annual family reunion over the years, and this one is shaping up to be bigger than most. Some of my cousins—well. We aren’t close, and they haven’t…we aren’t…they tend to…”_

_John nodded wisely. “Ah, I see. They’re arseholes. Right?”_

_Sherlock sighed in relief. “Right.”_

_“Every family has them.” John grinned. “But they would never say such a thing of you, hmm? I’m sure you’ve been your usual tactful, charming self, and never given them any kind of ammunition.” John lifted an eyebrow. “Correct?”_

_Sherlock sniffed and lifted one haughty eyebrow. “Well, there may have been some heated discussions about certain deductions in the past, but none of them were untrue.”_

_John shook his head, a soft smile on his face. “Sherlock. You know as well as I do, people forgive truth less readily than lies.”_

_Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “I know. I just—they said things, vicious things, and I couldn’t stand it. Besides, I haven’t gone to one of these in a long time. Maybe they won’t remember.” He looked up hopefully. “So—will you go?”_

_John appeared to consider. “I’d need a suit.”_

_“Easily handled.”_

_John grinned. “Then, hell, yeah, I’ll go. A weekend in Paris with you at your grandmother’s swanky estate, meeting your parents, and watching you destroy your dickish cousins? Nothing could keep me away.”_

_Sherlock shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You’re very odd, John.”_

_“Absolutely.” John leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “Birds of a feather, as they say.”_

XXX

Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t thought of the Paris trip in a long time. That had been…well. Turbulent. But in any event, it was long behind him, and there was no reason to dwell on it now. There was a challenge close at hand, and he was determined to rise to it.

He shook his head and settled back into the sofa.  He brought the photos firmly back to mind. All right. A robin, perched on a snow-laden branch in early spring. A window, with plants and a radiator, and some kind of bottle, what was it? A veranda, the latticed roof wrapped with thousands of fairy lights…

_“Cost a bloody fortune,” Mycroft groused, glaring through the windows of the dining room to the patio beyond. “I don’t understand why we have to go to all this trouble. People come for two reasons: to be seen, and for free food and drink. They’d come if we held it in a damp cave, as long as there were cameras and buffet tables. We don’t need all this—that.” He nodded to where their guests mingled and dined under carefully hung fairy lights._

_Mrs Holmes took a quick sip of her champagne before shaking her head. “Oh, hush, now,” she said, with a mother’s special mix of fondness and exasperation. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of decoration. It makes it—special. Magical.”_

_Mycroft snorted. “Magical. Right. It’s Christmas lights, not—“_

_“You should have waited,” Sherlock interrupted smoothly, raising his own glass to his lips. “John and I could have hung the lights. You’d have come in under budget.” He frowned down at his glass. “With the money you saved, you could have afforded a decent champagne.”_

_Mycroft pressed his lips together in a mockery of a smile. “Ah, yes. The two of you in your dungarees on a ladder. That would have been a scene worth watching. Your John does seem a man for all seasons. Could the two of you have stepped in for the string trio as well?”_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”_

_Mycroft grabbed a canapé from a waiter’s passing tray. “I’ve seen him everywhere this weekend. He helped Father hang some shelves in the workshop yesterday. I heard him talking to Mummy about her research this morning—“_

_Mummy nodded, still staring out the window. “He’s quite clever,” she said, distracted._

_“I’m sure. And I’m fairly certain I saw him helping to carry the groceries into the kitchen this morning. I wouldn’t be surprised to find he had stomped the grapes for the wine.” He turned to Sherlock with wide, innocent eyes. “Do tell, little brother. Is there anything your man can’t do?”_

_Sherlock flushed an angry red and drew in breath to reply, but his mother, focussed on something on the patio, placed a hand on his arm. “Mycroft, you’re being a jealous arse, and now is not the time. Sherlock, where is John right now?”_

_Sherlock looked down at her, nonplussed. “He was in the parlour talking to Mr Sheldon about rugby last I saw him. Horribly boring sport, rugby, but they seemed quite engaged, so I left them to it. Why?”_

_“Because your cousin Barry just grabbed Nicolas and Stuart and headed downstairs. They had that troublemaking look about them, and took a bottle of whiskey besides.” She raised concerned eyes to her youngest son. “I don’t like it. Go find John, and make sure he’s all right.”_

_Sherlock bit his lip, nodded, and strode out of the dining room. He slipped down the hall to the back staircase and moved quickly down the stairs. Dodging two servers with loaded trays, he turned to head toward the lower deck, but his attention was caught by murmurs from around the corner behind him. He turned and silently slid along the wall until he could make out the voices, which were coming from the hallway leading to the garage._

_“…Can’t blame you for sneaking a peek, really,” came a man’s voice. Stuart. “They’re very nice cars. Expensive. Don’t imagine you see many like them, where you come from.”_

_“Excuse me?” John’s voice, tight and controlled. “I live in London.”_

_Another voice cut in. “What Stu means is, it’s only normal to be curious about how the other half lives.” Barry. “I heard Aunt Vi talking to Grandmere this afternoon. She was telling her that you and Sherlock were flatmates, above some smelly pub. Flatmates, that’s a nice word for it. She sounded quite proud of you, though, what with you paying your own way through medical school and all.” He sniffed. “Is it true that you work in a coffee shop? How do you stand it?”_

_Sherlock closed his eyes and briefly imagined the flash of anger he knew had just passed through John’s eyes. This was going to be bad._

_“Now, Barry,” Stuart said, with a sneer in his voice. “We mustn’t judge. Good, honest, unskilled work is just fine for some, and not everyone can afford a place of his own.” A pause. “Or a decent haircut. Hmm, nice suit, though. However did you afford that?”_

_The thin, nasal voice of Cousin Nicolas cut in. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop dancing around it. It’s obvious to everyone here tonight why you’re willing to fuck that freak.” Sherlock flinched as he heard John’s sharp intake of breath. “We only want to know two things. One, is he a top or a bottom? We have a little wager. And second, how much is he paying you? Is it like an allowance, or…”_

_Sherlock whipped around the corner and grabbed Nicolas by the throat. “Am I mistaken, or did you just call my boyfriend a whore?” he said calmly, as he shoved the man back roughly against the wall. Stuart and Barry fell back, shocked and trapped by Sherlock’s sudden appearance. Nicolas clutched at Sherlock’s hand and kicked, but Sherlock only tightened his grip. “Apologise. Now,” he said through a clenched jaw._

_Barry stirred. “Now see here—“ he started, but froze when Sherlock’s cold gaze shifted his way._

_“I’ll deal with you next, don’t you worry,” Sherlock murmured. “Right after my dear cousin here apologises to my friend.”_

_Nicolas coughed, his face now a dark shade of red. “He’s gone,” he mouthed, true panic in his eyes._

_Sherlock looked over his shoulder to verify that the spot where John had been standing was now vacant. He turned back to his cousin, and, with a lift of his eyebrow, released his grip. Nicolas dropped to the ground, coughing and sobbing, but the others seemed unwilling to help him, or even to move from their huddle in the corner._

_Sherlock quickly glanced around the corner and confirmed that John was nowhere to be seen. He brushed a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket before rounding on the wide-eyed trio. He smiled an icy smile, and Nicolas actually whimpered._

_“I need to get back to the party, but first allow me to explain a few things to you, and I’ll use simple words so you can understand…”_

XXX

Sherlock expertly poured a glass from his own bottle of Syrah. He’d grown up with French wine, had had his first taste at his beloved grandmere’s knee. She had taught him that alcohol was best appreciated in moderation, and he had followed her lead, preferring other things to fuel his obsessions. Tonight, however, he was looking for a little inspiration. He could sense the solution to his puzzle was at hand, simmering in his subconscious; maybe a little wine would relax him enough that he could draw it out. It was worth a try, and if it didn’t work, well, maybe it would help him sleep.

He picked up his glass and moved into the sitting room. As he settled into his armchair, he took a deep, cleansing breath. Back to work. What was that thing called, a kite? What meaning could he find in a kite? Was it a childhood reference? Breakfast, a croissant and a cup of tea. Continental breakfast, another link to France? A window seat in a library, luxurious and sun drenched…

_“There you are,” Sherlock said, stepping slowly through the library doorway. The lights were off, and only a bit of moonlight filtered through the large windows. Sherlock squinted into the darkness. He could just make out John’s silhouette, seated in the shadows on the large, thickly cushioned window seat. “All right?” he asked quietly._

_John stirred. “How did you find me?” he asked. His voice was thick, and Sherlock winced to hear it. “That was quick, even for you.” John sighed. “Go on. Impress a bloke.”_

_Sherlock nodded, and made sure to keep his voice level. “I knew you would want to be alone. The only places off limits to the public tonight are the kitchen, the bedrooms, and the library. The kitchen is still busy, and thanks to your helpful nature, they know you there. So the kitchen was out. The bedroom—“ he hesitated._

_John nodded. “It’s all right,” he whispered._

_Only slightly reassured, Sherlock continued. “Well. You had just been confronted with some of the coarser aspects of our relationship. The bedroom probably didn’t hold much appeal.”_

_John didn’t answer for a long moment. “I—that explains it, I suppose. I just knew I didn’t want to go there.”_

_Sherlock’s face fell, but he hoped the shadows would hide it. “Just so. So the library it was. And here you are.”_

_John was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said finally._

_“Please. It’s not your---“_

_John slowly reached over and turned on a small lamp on the side table. Sherlock blinked at the brief flare of light, but then focussed on John’s face. He ached to see the resignation written there. “Just tell me,” John said, not meeting his eyes. “What did you do to them?”_

_“Oh. Well.” Sherlock scratched his head and looked away. “Cousin Nicolas might have some bruising, and his voice might be a little rough for a while.”_

_John nodded, a faint smile coming to his lips. “Pity. He already squeaked like a rat.”_

_“Don’t be cruel. Rats have feelings too, John,” Sherlock replied, and John’s smile grew a tiny bit wider. “But, then…let’s just say that I reminded each of them of certain secrets about themselves.”_

_“Of course you did. Such as?”_

_Sherlock smiled, a hesitant grin. “Are you sure you want to know?”_

_“Oh, yes, I think so.”_

_“Very well. There isn’t a one of them who could tie their own shoes, let alone make a decent latte. So I did a quick, rather efficient review of each one’s employment history.” He scratched his nose. “The others apparently didn’t know about Stuart’s little fencing hobby. Stolen antiques, not steel foils.” He looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Their new suspicions regarding missing family trinkets will, sadly, prove to be correct. He’ll have difficulty making things right, however, since he’s spent all the money on oxycontin and rent boys.”_

_“Hm. I’m shocked,” John said, amusement warming his tone. “What else?”_

_“Barry is a bastard.”_

_John chuffed a laugh. “They’re all bastards.”_

_“Yes, true, but Barry is a literal bastard. His father was a mechanic at their family estate, who upon Barry’s birth suddenly resigned and took sail for Australia with what was reported to be a tidy little nest egg. He had never been known for temperance, so his ability to save so much so quickly was quite remarked upon at the time. I’m told he purchased a chain of automotive repair shops that does quite well, and is planning to retire early. He sends a Christmas card to the family every year. His mother displays it prominently on the mantelpiece.”_

_“Oh, poor Barry. That must have been a shock.”_

_“Well, fortunately the liquor cabinet is well stocked, and Barry is no stranger to medicinal brandy.”_

_John was grinning outright now. “Go on. What of Nicolas?”_

_Sherlock’s smile turned coy. “Ah. Nicolas. Perhaps you’re happier not knowing. Nicolas has quite the dark side to him, though nothing is truly criminal. Or more to the point, everything is consensual.”_

_John blinked and stared. “Are you kidding?”_

_“Tragically, no.” Sherlock shrugged. “But some things are best not discussed in broad daylight, unless one is in a confessional.”_

_“Good god.”_

_“I told you they were arseholes.”_

_There was a long pause. “Do you think people really believe--that? What they said?” John finally asked in a quiet voice._

_Sherlock shook his head. “No one with any sense.”_

_“But…” John rubbed a tired hand down his face. “It will occur to them, Sherlock. I mean, look at you—“ he waved a hand in Sherlock’s direction. “You belong here. You’re the epitome of class and breeding. Meanwhile, I look like a carnival attendant. In a good suit, I’ll grant you, but that almost makes it worse.”_

_“Stop it.”_

_“You know what I mean, Sherlock. People will always judge us.” His breath caught. “Judge me.”_

_“John, listen.” Sherlock crossed the room to sit next to him on the window seat. “This collection of repugnant individuals represents a highly delusional subset of society. People here judge each other by the most arbitrary standards imaginable. If given the opportunity, they will destroy you, just to make themselves feel powerful.”_

_“But, Sherlock—“ John sighed. “They’re also your family.”_

_“No. Not in the ways that count. Mycroft, Dad, my mum—they know better. The rest of them can go rot. John, if anything—“ Sherlock reached over to take his hand. “You’re too good for me. I’m proud of you, damn it.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “As a matter of fact—“_

_“No.” John put his finger over Sherlock’s lips. “Not here, not like this. Just, no.” He shook his head gently. “Please?” he said softly. “Not like this.”_

_Sherlock swallowed. “All right.”_

_John pulled him forward and placed a light kiss on his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s. “For everything.”_

_Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes._

XXX

Sherlock drained the last of his wine and carefully set the glass on the floor. It was late now, so late it was almost early, and a light rain was starting to tap on the window. He stretched, resisting a yawn. He was so tired, and his eyes burned, but he sensed a hum, a quiet feeling that the solution might be at hand. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. One more time through the images, and if the solution didn’t present itself, he’d call it a night.

Kite. Croissant. Dog. Book. Bird. Window. Library. Eiffel Tower. Light, so much light...

_The string trio was long gone, and a jazz band had taken their place. As Sherlock and John sat in the darkness, the soft strains of a Gershwin medley drifted through the air and around them. John pulled Sherlock closer._

_“I didn’t expect them to suggest I was a—you know,” John whispered. “That didn’t even occur to me.” He sighed, and then snorted. “I did expect them to ask about our sex life, though.”_

_“Really?” Sherlock leaned back and considered him through cautious eyes._

_John nodded. “Of course. I even had my answer ready.”_

_“Hmm. What were you going to say?”_

_A sly grin threatened at John’s otherwise serious face. “Four words: Bossiest. Power. Bottom. Ever.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. “You would never.”_

_“Of course I would.”_

_Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. “You would have said I was well endowed, of course,” he said, no question in his tone._

_“Naturally.”_

_“Well, then, I suppose that’s all right.”_

_John laughed, a bright bark._

_The band shifted keys, and started to play a dreamy version of “April in Paris.”_

_Sherlock stood and turned to face him. “John,” he said. “Dance with me.”_

_John blinked. “I haven’t danced since my mum made me take classes as a lad. I’m not sure I remember how.”_

_“It’s dark. No one will ever know.” Sherlock stretched out his hand. “Please. Dance with me.”_

_John hesitated. “But…”_

_Sherlock waggled his fingers. “Come on. It will be fine. I’ll lead.”_

_“Bossy power bottom. Everyone would believe it, I’m telling you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then smiled as John slowly stood and took his hand._

_Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s waist and pulled him close. They swayed, circling slowly, and the stress of the evening slowly began to fade. Sherlock buried his face in John’s hair and shifted to talk directly into his ear._

_“I’ll always be proud of you, John Watson.”_

_John sighed, pulled Sherlock closer, and rested his cheek against his jacket. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his hair._

_“Those idiots have done nothing of value in their lives, and will fold at the first challenge,” he murmured. “You, on the other hand—“ Sherlock reached down and squeezed John’s firm backside. “Tempered steel.”_

_John turned his face into Sherlock’s chest and laughed quietly._

_“They are not fit to lick your boots,” Sherlock continued, a smile playing at his pressed lips. “Though Nicolas would probably…”_

_“Enough,” John gasped, laughing openly now. He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes crinkling with affection. “Stop, stop. You’ve made your point. Just kiss me, you posh wanker.”_

_“Now who’s bossy?” Sherlock murmured, as he leaned down to meet John’s smile. John’s lips parted as Sherlock tasted him, nibbling gently at his mouth. Their tongues touched softly once, twice before they pulled apart. John’s nose caressed Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock pulled him closer as they resumed their easy rhythm. The music played on._

_“’April in Paris.’ Mmm. I like this song,” John sighed. “It’s so romantic. The old songs are the best songs, don’t you think? ” he said, as he nuzzled Sherlock’s ear. “‘I never knew the charm of spring…’”_

Sherlock’s eyes popped open. For a moment, he stared sightlessly at the wall, his lips moving rapidly as his thoughts raced. “Oh. Oh!” Then, smirking, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and started typing.

_I figured out what he’s saying with the photos. Come to the pub tomorrow. –SH_

A minute passed.

_Seriously? –Lestrade_

_Yes. –SH_

_10AM. –Lestrade_

Sherlock smiled and stretched out in his chair. He knew he was right about this. His first real case, and he had solved the whole thing with only his brain and a glass of wine.

And with John, invaluable even from the past. God, but he missed him.

Sherlock’s eyes slid toward the notebook on the coffee table, open to a new, completely blank page. Several crumpled pages littered the floor in front of the sofa. He sat and thought for several minutes before finally walking over, sitting down, and putting pen to paper.

_Dear John,_  
_Tonight, I was reminded of our first dance._

Sherlock smiled. He’d finish this, and then go to bed.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to 221bJen, EnduringChill, and Kedgeree for their kind beta-ing. I change things right up until publication and sometimes a little after, so please don't blame them for my vain failings. Also additional thanks to Kedgeree and Avawtsn for tech support.


	5. Tanqueray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: Recipes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding a tag for some nostalgic remembrance of drug use. It is not very explicit but, well, Sherlock has a history. The mention is mild, but I wouldn't want you unwarned.

Sherlock checked his hair and straightened his collar. It was almost time to head downstairs for the lunch rush. It would probably be busy today. They had fish stew on as the daily special, and he didn’t understand why, but people would come out of the woodwork for scallops, even though—

A knock on the door of the flat interrupted his thoughts. “Sherlock?” came a woman’s muffled but smiling voice.

He broke into a grin and flew to the door, throwing it open so quickly it banged into the wall behind. “Mrs Hudson!” he fairly yelled, gathering up the small older lady into a giant hug.

“Careful, now, dear, you’ll crush my cake!” she said, laughing breathlessly. Sherlock stood back, beaming, took a large box from her hands, and ushered her inside. He placed the box on the table and turned, rubbing his hands together with delight. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I could have met you at the station,” he said, taking her coat. “Are you staying long? It’s so good to—“ He stopped suddenly, and frowned. “Wait—you didn’t call ahead. Is everything all right?” He stood back and started to look her over. 

Mrs Hudson smacked at the air in his direction. “Stop that right now, young man. I’ll tell you what you need to know. But first, you are going to make us each a cup of tea, and I am going to cut us each a piece of cake.” She walked over to the table and opened the box. “You’re going to love this recipe, Sherlock. It’s been a huge hit with the ladies in my club. Pass me a knife and get that kettle on, won’t you?”

Sherlock passed her a knife and two plates, and then busied himself with the kettle and tea things. As well as he could see, Mrs Hudson was fine. Better than fine, actually. She had put on four pounds and gotten a smart new hairstyle. He snuck a quick glance over his shoulder. Ah, five pounds, then. It looked good on her. Her clothes were more stylish than he remembered, better fitted, and she’d gotten new glasses. She was (there was no other word for it) glowing. She looked _happy_. Her new life agreed with her.

He smiled down at the kettle. Even a note from Mrs Hudson was a delightful treat; an actual visit warranted a celebration. This called for the good tea service. He reached down two cups and the delicate pot. 

They settled in at the table, teacups in hand and formidable pieces of cake in front of them. Mrs Hudson lifted her fork and an eyebrow, indicating with a nod that he should take the first bite. Sherlock took a bite of cake, and involuntarily closed his eyes. 

“Oh my god. This is—it’s gin and tonic cake. How is this even possible?” He swallowed and quickly took another mouthful. “Mrs Hudson, you are a genius.”

Mrs Hudson nodded, smiling widely. “Yes, of course, dear. We knew that. It’s good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock took another giant bite. “ _Good_ does not begin to describe it. It’s _great_. Mmm, this is Tanqueray.” He sighed in pleasure. “An excellent choice. I’ve only ever seen it in cocktails, and I’ve apparently been horribly deprived. God.” He licked the fork. “ _Delicious_.”

Mrs Hudson grinned her acceptance of the compliments. “Well, you know, Tanqueray has always been a favourite of mine. I like their botanicals. And they make it in Scotland now, so it’s easy to get my hands on.” 

Sherlock nodded and swallowed. “And how is Edinburgh?”

“Oh, cold, and rainy, and green, and--” Mrs Hudson smiled shyly down into her cup. “— _perfect_. We’ve a lovely home, with plenty of light and near to the shops. Margaret has a real gift with plants and such. The neighbours are friendly and mind their own business. There’s a ginger cat that comes to sit in the garden every morning, and we take tea and watch the birds together. And Margaret is just so--well.” She blushed, looking bashful. “That’s enough of that, I suppose.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in realisation. “You’re relieved. You were worried before you left. You were afraid you were making a mistake.”

Mrs Hudson nodded pensively. “We all do crazy things in the name of love, Sherlock, but I’m not a fool. I second-guessed my decision up to the day I left, and not just a few times after that. It seemed so impetuous at the time, you know. Just running off to play house, and at my age.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. You’re younger in spirit than anyone I know. In the ways that matter, you’re not even half the age of my brother.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “And you’re telling me, it never occurred to you that I might be making a mistake. Not even once.”

Sherlock paused with his teacup halfway to his lips. “Of course not. For one thing, you seemed truly happy from the moment she walked in the door. And besides, you’re one of the most reasonable people I’ve ever met. You don’t make decisions lightly, especially major ones.” He took a sip, watching her over the rim. “Why would you think that?”

She nodded slowly, lifting a finger to her cup and tracing the gold around the rim. “Well, as it happens, I have a lot more time to think these days, and it occurred to me I’d never asked your feelings on the matter. I just rather threw the pub at you and left.” She carefully did not meet his gaze. “And, also, I’ve been talking with someone, and we’ve been discussing, um, life choices, and regrets. Well, I say talk. Corresponding, really. You know. Writing.”

Sherlock froze for a moment, but then he blinked and swallowed, and deliberately set his cup down on the table. “You’ve been writing to John.” He blinked again and slipped his hands under the table, clasping them tightly in his lap. “That’s really why you’re here. He asked you to check on me,” he said calmly.

She looked directly into his eyes. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

He nodded, carefully expressionless, distantly proud of his self-control. “Is he…is he well?” he asked politely, as he dug his nails into his knee.

Mrs Hudson gave him a knowing look. “He’s fine, dear. He’s had some scary moments, but he’s being very careful.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed in relief. “Good. That’s—that’s good.”

Mrs Hudson slanted her eyes toward the sitting room, where a large map of Afghanistan was hanging prominently on the far wall, tacks and notations clearly visible. “He said he’d sent you some postcards,” she said, with a slight hesitation.

Sherlock pressed his lips together into an imitation of a smile. “Mmm, yes. A few, along the way. They’re around here somewhere, I suppose,” he said, flicking a glance toward his armchair and the box beneath it.

Mrs Hudson nodded as she considered what remained of her piece of cake. “He also said you hadn’t written back,” she said, her tone calm and even.

Sherlock’s smile collapsed, and he sighed a deep, resigned sigh. Mrs Hudson watched him sadly as he put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. “I’ve started at least a dozen letters to him,” he said, his voice muffled. “I even finished one, but I couldn’t bring myself to mail it. I stood there in front of the post box forever. All I needed to do was seal it and drop it in, and I just…didn’t.”

“Sherlock,” she said, her tone exasperated and fond. “Why ever not? He’s dying to hear from you.”

“I know. I mean, I didn’t _know_ , but what do I say?” He gestured feebly around the flat. “He left here in search of adventure and meaning. Excitement. Challenge. And here I am, doing exactly what I was doing before he left. He’s in the middle of a war zone, literally saving lives, and meanwhile, I’m running a pub. I provide people with the means of dealing with their problems in the unhealthiest way possible.” He shook his head, defeated. “He’d do well to forget me.”

“Now, stop that talk this minute, young man.” Mrs Hudson reached across the table and patted his hand. “You’re all he ever asks about, do you hear me? He _misses_ you. He’s up to his elbows in injuries and destruction, and he’s busy worrying about _you_.” She smiled gently. “Send him your letter. He’ll be delighted. Or better yet, give it to me, and I’ll drop it at the post office by the station tomorrow morning.”

He smiled wanly. “This is a quick visit, then.”

“Yes, well, I’m going to check in with the boarders at my other properties this afternoon. You’re taking me out for a very nice dinner tonight, and then I’m back home tomorrow.” She winked at him. “There’s a flower show this weekend, and Margaret has her roses entered. Missing it would be worth my life.”

“I see. Well, then.” Sherlock shook his head and forced a smile. “Is Chinese all right?”

“Italian,” she answered with determination. “Now, tell me, what’s new around here?”

“Well, let’s see.” Sherlock’s face cleared slowly as he tapped his chin and pretended to consider the question. “Oh, right!” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you remember the handsome silver haired man from Scotland Yard?” 

“No, I---wait. The fruit beer man?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Oh, my, yes. You told me he was a detective, didn’t you? Lovely bum on that man.” She looked up, suddenly suspicious. “Sherlock, you and he aren’t--you’re not—“

“What?” Sherlock reared back, surprised. “No! Oh, no, no, no.” He shook his head emphatically. “It’s something much better, Mrs Hudson. I helped him catch a _serial killer_.”

He grinned widely at her shocked gasp, and then quickly told her the story, pausing only for quick bites of cake. At the end, Mrs Hudson shook her head fondly.

“I’m proud of you, dear. That was a valuable public service, getting that menace off the streets.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips, considering. “I didn’t do it to help anybody. I just--it was a puzzle, and I solved it. That’s all.”

She nodded. “Of course. You always did like a good puzzle. But I don’t know, Sherlock. Seems to me you did a lot of good there. And it was exciting, right? Challenging, even. And meaningful, no matter what you say.” She picked up their plates and headed toward the counter, stopping on the way to press a kiss to his cheek. “John would be proud of you,” she said calmly over her shoulder, as she placed the dishes into the sink. 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. Mrs Hudson wiped her hands on the tea towel and turned to face him.

“Now, don’t give me that,” she said. “He really loves you, you know. It’s perfectly obvious.”

Sherlock flinched, and looked up at her, wide-eyed. “He never said.”

“No, I imagine not. And I’m sure you didn’t say anything, either.” She sighed then, and patted his cheek. “Well, you are English men. It’s rather astonishing that you managed to tell each other your names.”

Sherlock sighed. “I tried to once, you know, in Paris, but—he stopped me. It wasn’t the right time. It was never the right time, and then he was gone.”

“Oh, you are _such_ idiots,” she said fondly, ruffling his hair.

He huffed a rueful laugh. “I won’t argue.” 

“Because I’m right.” She slid her hand down to his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Now. I’m going to head downstairs and make sure you haven’t messed up my famous fish stew. I’ll tell the staff you’ll be along in a minute.”

Sherlock nodded absently. The door closed behind her, and he frowned down at the table, thoughtful.

====================================================

They had reupholstered the chairs and added a coat rack, but otherwise the little Italian restaurant hadn’t changed. It was a cosy, candlelit place, set far back in an alley and marked only with a faded hand-painted sign. The maître d’ recognized Mrs Hudson immediately and ushered them to a corner table with an appropriate amount of fussing and the promise of a bottle of Chianti.

Sherlock tapped his long fingers on the white tablecloth and stared out the window while Mrs Hudson considered the menu. He’d order the same thing he always did, and he knew she would, too. Despite himself, he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten a thing since the cake. The scents of fresh bread and crushed garlic were making his mouth water. 

_“Wow, it smells great in here,” John said, walking up behind and leaning into Sherlock where he stood at the stove, stirring a large pot of sauce. “What is it?”_

_Sherlock pressed a distracted kiss to John’s temple as he kept stirring. “Nothing special. Just spaghetti Bolognese. Didn’t feel much like take out tonight.” He lifted the wooden spoon to John’s mouth. “Hope you don’t mind.”_

_John tasted the sauce and moaned with pleasure. “Hell, no, I don’t mind, not if you can cook like that. Christ, Sherlock, that’s amazing.” He reached for the spoon and flattened his tongue against the bowl, closed his eyes, and grumbled low in his chest._

_“Are you—is that_ purring _?” Sherlock laughed as John glared at him, licking the spoon all the while. “Cooking is really quite simple, you know. For example, the secrets to a good Bolognese are real garlic, the freshest possible tomatoes, and a mere hint of nutmeg. You have to maintain the perfect balance of acidity and sweetness. It’s just chemistry.”_

_“You should win the Nobel Prize, then. Jesus,” John said reverently, gazing at the spoon with exaggerated devotion. Sherlock reached for it, but John pulled back in mock outrage, turning his body away and covering the spoon protectively with one hand. “No. You can’t have it. It’s been decided. I’m going to marry this spoon.”_

_“But I need to stir the sauce, or it’s going to burn,” Sherlock protested, giggling. “Come on, John, that’s our only spoon.”_

_John shook his head, expression solemn. “Then we have a situation here, Mr Holmes. Nothing will separate me from this spoon. Nothing.”_

_“Nothing?” Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow, but still grinning._

_“Nothing,” John declared. “Now that I’ve found my true…wait, what the hell are you...oh,” he trailed off softly, watching wide eyed as Sherlock deliberately dipped his finger into a small dish of olive oil and then slid it into his mouth. He sucked gently once before releasing his finger with a soft pop, leaving just the barest hint of shine in the middle of his lower lip. He lowered his eyes in mock humility._

_“I fear I have only myself to offer in trade,” Sherlock murmured, face solemn but with an undercurrent of laughter in his voice. He placed his hand on his chest and dipped his head. “I hope you will find me a worthy substitute for your cherished utensil.”_

_The answering silence stretched for a long moment, and finally Sherlock looked up from under his lashes. John’s mouth was hanging open, and the spoon appeared forgotten. “Bloody hell, if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve ever…” John muttered, as he dropped the spoon and caught Sherlock’s face with both hands. With a quiet moan, he licked Sherlock’s lips, tracing every angle and corner with the tip of his tongue, before finally slipping it into Sherlock’s now smiling mouth for a proper kiss._

_After a few seconds, Sherlock pulled back. “I know you’re only doing this to make the spoon jealous,” he murmured._

_“Oh, fuck the spoon,” John growled, grasping his shirt and pulling his face back down for another series of searing kisses. Sherlock grasped John’s hips and held on tight._

_“My god, John,” Sherlock panted, as John finally broke the kiss to slide his lips across Sherlock’s smooth jaw and down his long neck. “Is this what happens every time someone makes you dinner?”_

_“Hmm. Dunno,” John murmured, stopping to suck gently on Sherlock’s pulse point. “First time.”_

_Sherlock leaned back and blinked down at him, surprised. “Wait, never?”_

_John looked up at him, lips swollen from kissing and sharp arousal in his eyes. “No one, Sherlock. You’re the first.” A sly smile crossed his lips. “And I have to say, I am finding that I really—“ Another kiss to the neck. “—Really—“ John’s lips slid up to his ear, and Sherlock whimpered at a gentle nibble on his earlobe. “—Like it.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. “You make me want to do things for you,” he whispered with a sigh, as John nosed the collar of his shirt to the side and started nuzzling at the meeting of his neck and shoulder. “I love to see you happy. God, John, I think I—“_

_Sherlock froze for a moment as he completed that sentence in his head. He loved John. He loved him. He gasped sharply as his heart leapt in his chest. He loved John and he needed—he needed to tell him, oh god, to say the words, would John say them back, what would happen--_

_John took advantage of Sherlock’s momentary paralysis to surge up and claim his lips again, sliding a hand behind Sherlock’s neck and holding him in place. All coherent thought fled Sherlock’s mind, and he was left with only the pounding of his heart and the silky-hot feeling of John’s lips on his. “You—you sexy, sexy man, you—God, please—“ John rumbled between kisses. He pulled Sherlock close, and Sherlock could feel John hard against his thigh. He whimpered a bit in the back of his throat as he tried to keep up with John’s increasingly frantic kisses. “How am I supposed to even try—Jesus, you taste—“_

_Taste. “John, wait,” Sherlock gasped. “The sauce, it’s—“_

_John’s eyes opened wide, but only for a moment before he quickly turned and shut off the burner. “We’ll eat later, all right? I promise,” he said urgently. “But first, I need you out of these trousers and on the sofa, right bloody_ now _.” He grabbed Sherlock by the waistband of his jeans and dragged him into the sitting room._

_The spoon lay forgotten on the kitchen floor for a full hour._

_Later, they ate pasta, and laughed, and drank a little too much wine, and Sherlock watched John with soft eyes, aglow with his new revelation. Not tonight, he thought, watching John eat, and stretch, and smile, and be perfect. Not tonight, but soon._

XXX

Mrs Hudson drained the last drops of her espresso and reached over to pat Sherlock on the arm. “Take me home, dear,” she said gently. “It’s late.”

Sherlock started. “Oh. I am sorry, Mrs Hudson.”

“Don’t be, dear,” she said with a faint smile. “You’ve obviously got a lot to think about. I don’t mind.”

“Yes, well.” He stood to help her with her coat. “I don’t want to be rude, though. I’m delighted you’re here. It’s been far too long.” He strode ahead to open the door, and gallantly gestured her through. It was a clear evening, and they both took deep breaths of the brisk night air. “When was the last time I saw you? Christmas?”

She took his arm as they turned to walk down the sidewalk. “No, my birthday, remember? You made me that lovely dinner, but insisted I had to make my own cake.”

“Oh, right. Yes. Well, that was for your own good, you know. No one wants me baking. Cooking, yes, but not baking. Everything takes too long. I’d get bored or distracted, and that would be the end of the building.”

She grinned. “I don’t buy that for a minute. You just wanted me to make my cherry cake. You miss it, admit it.” 

“Mrs Hudson, I wake up nights seeing your cherry cake. I’ve made provisions in my will for upkeep of the recipe in perpetuity.” He winked down at her as she preened. “Just trust me,” he continued, as he patted her hand. “I have it on good authority that I’m a terrible baker.”

_Sherlock crouched in front of the oven, looking worriedly through the window. He was so focussed that he missed the footsteps on the stairs, and started violently at the sound of John’s voice._

_“What the hell is all this?” John asked. He stood poised at the entrance to the kitchen, glancing around nervously as if afraid to step inside._

_Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Ah. John. You’re home early,” Sherlock said, quickly pasting on a false, bright smile and stepping in front of the cluttered counters and crowded, dripping sink. “How were your classes? Did you have a good day? Did you tell anyone it was your birthday?”_

_“Yes,” John answered, drawing out the word suspiciously. “The anatomy TA cut the lab session short and stood me a pint, which was nice. Seriously, Sherlock, what gives?” He took a cautious step onto the tile and looked around. “It looks like a hurricane hit in here.”_

_Sherlock’s face fell as he ran a flour-dusted hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it.”_

_John scoffed. “A bit, yeah. What’s in the oven?”_

_Sherlock flushed. “I, uh, was trying to make you a birthday cake.”_

_“A birthday cake,” John echoed, sceptically._

_“Right.” Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the sink, rueful. ”Mrs Hudson told me she’d help, but she’s still in Kent at the, you know, thing—“_

_“Bridge tournament.”_

_“--Right, bridge tournament, and she isn’t going to be back until later, and I wanted to have it ready for you when you got home, so—“ He flapped his hands in front of him in frustration. “I winged it.”_

_“You winged it.” John rubbed his mouth, covering an amused smile. “You_ hate _winging things. You like plans. Theorems and proofs. The scientific method.”_

_Sherlock shrugged. “True, but I thought I had this figured out. I know the basic components of a cake, after all. I mixed them in what I thought would be appropriate proportions, and applied heat for what should have been effective time periods, but I have to say…”_

_“The experiment failed?” John asked drily, a sparkle in his eye._

_Sherlock resignedly motioned toward the oven. “Apparently. Though this one looks better than the other two. It’s at least semi-solid.”_

_“Wait. This is your third cake?” John asked, incredulous. “You went to the shops? We didn’t even have bread for toast in this morning.”_

_“Ah, I went twice. After the first failure, I rather…stocked up.”_

_Shaking his head, John moved to the refrigerator. “Hell, Sherlock, you’ve got, what, three pounds of butter in here. And holy Jesus, look at all the eggs. There’s enough for two weeks of omelettes. Wait, what’s in this bowl?”_

_“Oh.” Sherlock brightened a bit. “Chocolate frosting. That came out pretty well, actually. That was a nice surprise.”_

_“Or course. Frosting.” John closed the refrigerator door. “Well, we’re all set for butter and eggs, should the apocalypse come.”_

_Sherlock nodded toward a cabinet. “Um, we’ll have plenty of sugar for tea as well.”_

_John opened the cabinet door and took a quick look. “Cor, you’re right about that.”_

_Sherlock slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I spent all day on this, John. I didn’t get out to get you a present or anything. I was going to take you out tonight for a nice dinner, and then bring you home for cake and presents, and, well. Afters.”_

_“Afters?”_

_Sherlock blushed. “You know what I mean.”_

_John grinned. “I have some idea, I suppose, but considering the contents of the refrigerator, I must confess to being intrigued about the particulars.”_

_“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, does it? The kitchen is trashed, and there’s not even a cake to show for it.” He waved a dismissive hand toward the oven. ”I’m a terrible boyfriend.”_

_John’s eyes softened. “Oh, no, Sherlock. No,” he murmured, moving to stand in the space between Sherlock’s knees. “No, you’re a perfect boyfriend.” He reached to gently brush back an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “No one has ever gone to this much effort for me before. My own mum never once made me a cake.”_

_“Well, I haven’t managed it either, so who am I to judge,” Sherlock said with a sigh, leaning forward to press his forehead against John’s chest._

_John slid his hand into the curls on the back of Sherlock’s head and leaned down to brush a quick kiss across the top. “Tell you what, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll call for a takeaway. You can get started on straightening the kitchen, and I’ll pop down for a couple of Mrs Hudson’s custard tarts. We’ll eat. You can sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me, if you like. We’ll have a few beers, get a tiny bit drunk, and then we’ll get this ‘afters’ thing sorted. Sound good?”_

_“I suppose,” Sherlock said hesitantly, his voice muffled in John’s shirt. “I still haven’t gotten you a present.”_

_“Not true, and in any case, that’s easily handled. You’ll wash the sheets tomorrow.”_

_Sherlock looked up curiously into John’s smiling face. “What do you mean? It’s my laundry week anyway.”_

_“Right, and we both know how good you are at getting out of that.”_

_Sherlock looked briefly abashed._

_“However, it is my birthday,” John continued, “and as the rules of these sorts of things clearly state, I get whatever I want. Now, as it happens, there is homemade chocolate frosting in my refrigerator, and a very sexy man in my kitchen. This is going to get messy, and I’m not going to be the one to clean it up.” He lifted an eyebrow in challenge._

_Sherlock snorted before smiling slyly. “Sounds like a lot of work. If we just go out back into the alley, we can use the hose after.”_

_John burst into bright laughter, and Sherlock’s grin widened. They stood smiling at each other for a long moment before Sherlock started to speak without thinking. “God, John, I—“_

_The oven timer went off, and John stepped back._

_“All right, grab that, Sherlock, and I’ll get started on phase one of Operation Birthday. Is Thai OK? Only—“ His gaze swept the kitchen. “We’ll have to eat in the sitting room, I think. Get to work before this place is condemned,” he said, sternly._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and shut off the timer. John drifted away, mumbling about menus, but Sherlock focused on the light feeling in his chest, and the texture of those words sitting ready in his mouth, pleasant on his tongue. Tonight, he thought._

_Later, though, his mouth was too busy to speak much beyond “John,” “yes,” and “please.” The sun woke them the next morning from a dreamless, sated sleep, and the moment again had passed._

XXX 

They reached the doors of Mrs Hudson’s hotel, and Sherlock leaned in to kiss her cheek. “You’ll be all right, then?” he asked quietly, as they turned to face each other on the sidewalk.

She hummed an affirmation. “Right to bed with me, I think. Will you?”

“Of course.” He smiled down at her. “I think I’ll walk back.”

She frowned. “Are you sure? It’s rather a long way.”

“No, I—just want some fresh air, is all. Shall I meet you here in the morning, then?”

“Whatever for?”

“Well…to drop you at the station, of course.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “I don’t think so, Sherlock. You should get some rest. I’ll get some handsome young taxi driver to wrangle my bag for me.” 

“But I want to see you off.”

“No, you don’t. You hate goodbyes. And besides, it’s only for a couple of months. Margaret and I will be back at the end of the summer for her niece’s wedding.” She winked at him saucily. “Wait until you see my hat.”

Sherlock took her hand and pressed it warmly. “I cannot wait.”

“All right, then. Straight home, young man. None of your wandering, now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He opened the door and gave a deep bow. “Rest well, milady, and good travels on the morrow,” he said, in an exaggeratedly formal tone.

Mrs Hudson laughed and affected a regal air as she strolled to the door, but she paused before she entered. “Sherlock…” she said softly.

He bent his head and she kissed his cheek, and then leaned in just a bit more to whisper into his ear. “Send the letter, love,” she murmured.

He sighed and offered her an affectionate smile. “Good night, Mrs Hudson,” he said quietly, and watched after her as she passed through the door.

 

_I promise I’ll write. –JW_

_You’d better. –SH_

_He set his mobile down on the side table, their last exchange still glowing on the screen. He was alone now._

_The flat was quiet. If he tried, he probably could have heard the sounds of the pub below, clicks and clinks of glasses and mugs, the murmured conversation of the early customers, Mrs Hudson’s fluttering, but none of it mattered. John was gone, and Sherlock was left staring after him._

_John had left. Gone downstairs and out the door, exchanged hugs with Mrs Hudson and Billy and that hateful kitchen worker who called Sherlock “guvnor” and the waitress with the incipient diabetes mellitus and unhealthy attachment to her cousin, and then the taxi, and—_

_Gone. John was gone._

_A huge wave of feeling overtook Sherlock, rising up through the floor, soaking through his shoes, and finally burning through his veins. His knees threatened to buckle and his vision clouded. His heart was racing. He shouted then, or snarled, maybe, but he didn’t know what he was feeling was rage until he heard the smash of his mug against the wall and thought, ah, that felt right. More of_ that _._

_He kicked over the stack of journals that John had left (“recycle them, please, Sherlock, I can’t exactly take them with me, can I”), and cleared the coffee table of its detritus with a sweep of his arm (“can you at least hide the ashtray until I’m gone? Would it hurt you to pretend?”). Not enough. He staggered to the kitchen, panting. The good tea service rested on the sideboard, left out to dry after the painfully awkward last night Mrs Hudson had forced on them; a gold-rimmed teacup smashed against the backsplash behind the sink. He dropped the saucers, all of them, and the sound as they hit the tile was almost musical, the fragments tinkling against the hard surface. He immediately waded in and stomped them into silent, definitive dust. He picked up the teapot then, and reared back to throw, but a brief image of John smiling down at it flashed through his mind, and he stayed his hand._

_He closed his eyes and chased the memory: the smell of dust, the glimmer of delicate porcelain, John’s finger tracing the design on the handle, the rustle of brown paper, a fragile package on the seat of the train. John and Sherlock had bought the teapot together at a market one bright Sunday morning. John had spotted it on a low shelf, and they had marvelled over their luck in finding the perfect piece to complement Mrs Hudson’s eclectic collection._

_Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and the rage morphed into something new: grief, loss, sorrow._

_Sherlock carefully set the teapot down on the counter. Unable to look away from it, he staggered back and blindly felt around until his hand hit on a nearly full bottle. Still transfixed, he opened the bottle and drank from it blindly. His mind registered liquor, clear, strong, warm. He took another long drink, and then another, and the teapot started to blur around the edges._

_He felt numbness start in his core, a blessed absence of feeling, and he allowed himself to slip into it. He knew this was a bad idea, but he wasn’t sure he cared. He’d be strong tomorrow, but tonight he didn’t want to deal with this pain._

_His thoughts turned to a velvet-wrapped parcel, carefully preserved and ingeniously hidden. He allowed himself to imagine it all, the sensual dance of the spoon and the lighter, the practiced precision of the tourniquet and the syringe, fleeting pleasure, the absence of worry. Peace from the roaring in his head, the throbbing of his heart. He’d be able to rest, if not sleep. It had been a long time since he’d felt that luxurious silence. It sounded—good._

_He took another drink, and washed it down with a larger one._

_John would hate it if he relapsed._

_John had left._

_John said he’d write._

_Sherlock slid down the wall to the floor, his arm awkwardly wrapped around the bottle. John was gone. He’d left Sherlock behind, and he was going to war._

_John was going to war._

_Sherlock had never told him he loved him._

XXX

Sherlock stood on the sidewalk before the red post box, shoulders back and jaw set. His hands were shaking, which was ridiculous. The street was quiet. No one was watching. It was fine. He could do this. He was going to do this.

He gripped the pen tightly and took a deep breath.

The blue Forces Free letter was almost completely filled with his immaculate, compact writing, but there was one small space under the flamboyant signature where he could fit a few more words. A few basic, straightforward, essential and overdue words.

He nodded once, crisp with resolve, and lowered the pen to the paper.

There, done.

He stared at the letter for a long moment, the words slipping in and out of focus in the faint yellow light of the streetlamp. Then, slowly and with care, he folded the letter into shape and unpeeled the seal on the flap. He’d written the address in a precise block font across the front, and he took a second to brush his thumb across the name before sliding it through the mail slot.

The letter fell, and he listened for the quiet “thwick” of its landing, one side of his mouth curling in a tentative smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to Kedgeree11, EnduringChill and 221bJen for beta services. I owe you guys. Thank you. Of course, all mistakes are mine because I CANNOT STOP PICKING AT THINGS.
> 
> I'm very grateful to Esterbrook for telling me about gin and tonic cake. I have yet to try it, but word has it, it's delicious. If anyone wants the recipe, please send me a message and I will be happy to set you up.
> 
> Cheers, all, for reading.


	6. Woodford Reserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: text-based communication (epistolary fic).

It had been one week since he mailed the letter.

\---

Text to Mycroft: Update, please. –SH  
___Do you ever sleep? –MH_  
Quit asking stupid questions. Update, please. –SH  
_ All quiet. They’ve been at Bastion for several days, refitting. –MH  
_ Excellent. Thank you. –SH

\---

It was a lively crowd for a weeknight. Several officers from the Yard circulated around the tall square tables in the corner, but Lestrade and a colleague had drifted away from the group and claimed the last two seats at the bar. Lestrade, laughing, took a drink from his pint and pointed at Sherlock where he stood behind the taps.

“…so then, this wanker tells me to use this formula he’s come up with, cross referencing the periodic table and the number one songs from the previous three weeks. That would tell me the date of the next murder  _ and _ the initials of the intended victim.”  Lestrade threw back the rest of his beer, and banged the glass on the table. “And he was right. We caught the guy in the act. I mean, give me a break, the bloody periodic table?”

“He  _ was _ a chemist,” Sherlock observed blandly as poured another beer. “Of course he used the periodic table. It was the music part that was clever.” He slid the drink across the bar to Lestrade with a faint smile.

Lestrade shook his head and threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The woman sitting next to him looked at Sherlock appraisingly, and finally tipped her glass. “Not bad, for a bartender,” she said blandly.

He nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said politely. “Have you settled into your new office?”

Her eyes briefly widened. “How’d you know? Lestrade, did you tell him?”

“No, I didn’t,” Lestrade said, with a knowing smile. “Go on. Show her.”

Sherlock looked her over quickly. “You started at the Yard three days ago, after relocating from Cornwall. The move was most likely precipitated by a breakup with your American boyfriend, though that was secretly a relief to you. He was pressuring you to get married, but you wanted to focus on your career. A wise decision, I think. You read quite a bit, nonfiction, probably history, play a mean game of snooker, and most relevant to our immediate situation, actually prefer bourbon to wine,” he said, nodding at her near empty glass of sauvignon blanc. “Is Woodford Reserve all right?”

She stared at him. “Yes, thank you,” she said slowly. “I prefer it—“

“On ice,” Sherlock finished, with a confident nod, as he moved to the other end of the bar to prepare the drink. The sergeant was watching him, and as he poured the whiskey over the cubes of ice, she nodded to herself, as if she had come to some decision. Sherlock was too far away to hear, but years behind a bar had taught him how to read lips.

The sergeant leaned in toward Lestrade. “You know, boss, maybe we should show him the file on the country house case,” she said quietly. “I’m still not convinced that was suicide, are you?”

Lestrade bit his lip thoughtfully and gave Sherlock a quick, appraising glance. “No. No, I’m not.”

Sherlock almost managed to suppress his grin.

 

XXX

 

It had been two weeks since he sent the letter.

\---

Text to Mycroft: Update, please. –SH  
___It’s 3AM, Sherlock. Get some sleep, for god’s sake. You’ve a business to run. –MH_  
I did sleep, now I’m awake. Update, please. -SH  
Mycroft. –SH  
MYCROFT. –SH  
_ Fine. A patrol came under sniper fire yesterday, and had to be airlifted out of harm’s way. Three casualties, one severe.--MH _  
___Dr Watson was able to save him. –MH_  
___Apparently, he’s quite proficient. -MH_  
Where? –SH  
___Dahaneh. Helmand Province. –MH_  
…  
___Sherlock? –MH_  
Yes. Noted. Thank you. –SH  
___He’s fine, Sherlock. -MH_  
_ Get some sleep. –MH_

\---

Sherlock quickly glanced over the boxes of produce that were stacked on the counter just outside the kitchen.

“This isn’t right,” he said with a frown. “I ordered more tomatoes than this.”

The delivery man shrugged. “Sorry, mate. Joey said this was all he had worth sending. He told me to tell you he sent along some extra of those little potatoes you like, and there’s some eggplant.”

Sherlock straightened. “Perfect. Lovely. I will make the Caprese with eggplant, and use the potatoes in the Bolognese.” He shoved at a box. “This is unacceptable.”

The man blinked. “Well, I’ll tell him, but—“

Sherlock whirled to face him. “Tell  _ Joey _ I said he should put down the whiskey and the racing sheet and  _ get off his arse _ and go check on his growers. They’re using cheap fertilizer, and it’s affecting their yield.”

“They’re—what?“

“Also tell him it’s not his brother skimming the till, it’s his nephew. He’s set up a side office at the south side warehouse. Could be fencing, but it’s probably drugs. Joey should check it out. Thursday morning should be safe.”

The man stared blankly at him. “Thursday?”

“Thursday. Visiting day at Buckley Hall Prison. All the gang members go to report and get new orders. Nephew always skives off Thursday mornings, right?”

The man blinked, now shocked. “How the hell did you—Drugs? Really?“

In reply, Sherlock gestured to the truck idling at the kerb. “It’s all clear as day. If he’s going to use the truck, he should wash it. Now give your boss my message and for Christ’s sake, bring me some _bloody_ tomatoes.” He slapped at the box one last time before storming up the stairs to the flat.

After a few seconds, a man in an apron peeked around the corner. “You OK, mate?”

The delivery man shook himself. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Is he always like that?”

“Nah. Guvnor’s just kinda tense right now.” The kitchen worker walked into the room, holding a spatula. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one. I thought the postman was going to cry.”

“Still. That was—um. I’d better—“

“Yeah.” The man in the apron winked. “I’ll watch for the tomatoes.”

 

XXX

It had been three weeks since he sent the letter.

\---

Text to Mycroft: Update, please. –SH  
___Later. -MH_  
Mycroft. –SH  
___Sherlock. Not now. –MH_  
…  
…  
Is it bad? –SH  
Mycroft. Please. –SH  
___One minute. The report is coming in now. –MH_  
…  
_ We found him. Major skirmish in Musa Qala.  His squad was pinned down but they called in air support and everyone got out. Relatively minor casualties, at least for his crew. -MH_  
…  
___Sherlock, are you there? –MH_  
Yes. –SH  
Was John hurt? –SH  
___Minor lacerations and contusions. –MH_  
___Cuts and bruises. –MH_  
I KNOW what the words mean, Mycroft. –SH  
...  
_I know you do. -MH_

\---

A storm was raging, and the rain was fairly pelting the windows. Sherlock looked up with surprise when the door creaked open. The pub had been empty all afternoon. 

Lestrade hung his dripping raincoat on the last hook and squished to the bar. He slid onto his usual stool with a grimace and gave a grunt of greeting. 

He looked like hell. This was a man who needed a drink.

“Scotch, then,” Sherlock said as if continuing a discussion, reaching for the bottle.

“Yeah. Give me two.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but slid the glasses across the bar without another word. He watched as Lestrade quickly threw back the first drink and wrapped his hand protectively around the second with a deep sigh.

“Rough day?”

“Rough case.” Lestrade rubbed his eyes. ”Terrible crime. Grotesque. A double murder, and we have nothing to go on. Not one single lead.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, but his voice was steady. “Do go on, Detective Inspector.”

“I’m not sure I should," Lestrade sighed. "This case is attracting a lot of attention from the higher ups. I should keep everything by the book.”

“Oh, look around, Lestrade,” Sherlock drawled, indicating with a wave both the empty bar and the deserted streets outside the windows. “There’s absolutely no one to overhear. Besides, it might help you to talk it out.”

Lestrade stared at him for a long minute. “It could do,” he said, speculatively. “But why do you care?”

Sherlock blinked once. “Does it matter?”

Lestrade took a sip of his drink. “I guess not, but I’m interested anyway.”

Sherlock remained silent.

“It’s not just about wanting to help, or sympathy for the victims.” Lestrade hummed and tilted his head thoughtfully. “A wise man would stop to wonder if you’re not a budding serial killer yourself.”

Sherlock straightened at that. “I see your point.” His eyes narrowed. “But you don’t think that, do you.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Can’t say it hasn’t occurred to me. I’ve been coming here a long time, and it’s not like I don’t know you can be a right arsehole.”

“Yes. I can. And I can still help you.” Sherlock leaned across the bar and looked at Lestrade intently. “So tell me.”

Lestrade ran a hand through his wet hair and shook his head, resigned. “Oh, what the hell. All right.” He took another sip of his drink and pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “The crime scene is a basement, in bloody Westminster of all places. The victims were two women, ages twenty-one and —“ He was interrupted by the chime of an incoming text message, and glanced at the screen. He paled. “Oh, fuck. Someone leaked pictures of the scene to the papers. The shit is about to hit the fan.”

Sherlock leaned back with a frown. “You’ll be going, then.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade sighed and slid off the stool. “At least the weather will keep the media from camping out at the building.” He stretched widely and winced. “Christ, I haven’t slept in two days. This bloody case.”

“Well, when you need my help, I’ll be here,” Sherlock said, with a hint of melancholy.

 

XXX

 

It had been four weeks since he sent the letter.

\---

Text to Mycroft: Update, please. –SH  
___They’re back at base. The squad has been debriefed. Everyone is recovering. All is well. –MH_  
Thank you. –SH  
_ Are you all right? –MH_  
Of course. –SH  
_It’s what he signed up for, little brother. –MH_  
It’s not. He’s a doctor. He’s not a soldier. –SH  
…  
_ Do you still believe that? --MH _

\---

Text from Lestrade: He’s struck again, and it’s worse than before. I’m at the crime scene. GL  
We need fresh eyes. I’ve gotten you emergency clearance as a consultant. GL  
We're desperate. GL  
Can you come? GL  
_ How could I refuse? –SH _

XXX

Mailed 27th June, postmarked London.

_ Dear John, _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. _

_ I’m sorry I haven’t written. I won’t waste your time with excuses; just know that I think of you often. _

_ Things haven’t been the same since you left. _

_ But don’t worry, London is still London, cold and loud and crowded and busy and alive. There’s a new traffic light at the corner. The woman in the top flat across the street got some sort of bird that makes a horrible racket in the mornings. They finally replaced the broken glass in the bus shelter. Oh, and there’s a new café around the corner, where that chip shop used to be. It seems nice, quite popular with the Scotland Yard types already. The man who started it inherited the money from family (elderly uncle, I think, money from banking), and is suspending his long cherished dreams of being a novelist in order to make a go of this for the sake of his marriage. I wish him well, but his wife is managing affairs with the milk deliveryman and the florist simultaneously, and when she was in last week, she pinched my bum. I’m not optimistic. _

_ There’s not much news from around the pub. Billy got accepted to King’s College on a chemistry scholarship, and he’ll be leaving this September. He’s quite excited, but also a little nervous. Unfortunately, this is justified. His understanding of the chemistry of narcotics is without peer, and word is already getting around. Once his research is fully underway, certain of the faculty will want to “mentor” their way to lucrative consulting contracts with pharmaceutical companies. I’ll have to watch out for him. In any case, we’re throwing him a proper going-away party in August, and I’ll be sure to lift a glass for you. (I suppose it would be rather difficult for you to drop by, though, of course, you would be more than welcome.) _

_ Lydia the barmaid (or is it Lisa? You know I never can remember) finally caught the eye of that constable she likes, and they’ve been going out for several weeks now. It all seems rather serious, but of course, he has yet to meet her mother. You remember, the one with the voice and the thumbnails? That will be the true test of the relationship. I do hope it survives, as she’s been much more pleasant with the customers lately. Perhaps the mother will contract laryngitis, and it will be cold enough for gloves. _

_ I’ve kept up with Mrs Hudson. She seems quite content in Edinburgh, in her new house with Margaret. It was a good move for her. I’m sure she’s been in touch with you directly, so I won’t waste space with more of that, except to say that it’s obvious she misses you. _

_ As to me personally, I guess the biggest news is that one of the regulars, a detective with NSY, asked for my input on a case. I can’t go into the particulars (he claims it’s to do with privacy law and department policy; I maintain it’s so there’s no written evidence of their collective incompetence), but in any event, I solved the case. They caught a murderer. A serial killer, John. The detective says he’ll consider asking for my help again in the future. On slow days, I find myself hoping a sociopath will go on a crime spree. I suppose that’s a bit not good. _

_ I wish you could have been here for it. You would have loved it. It was brilliant. _

_ It appears I am running out of space, so I will end with a simple request. I cannot be there to watch after you, so please, take care of yourself. Eat carefully, drink water, get plenty of rest. Wear sunscreen. And don’t be the first into every battle. _

_ Mrs Hudson isn’t the only one who misses you. _

_ Be safe, John. _

_ Yours, _

_ Sherlock _

 

_ (P.S. I love you.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to Kedgeree, EnduringChill and 221bJen for being my sounding board and extra eyes.
> 
> Check out the other fics in this challenge at http://twelve-in-twelve-2016.tumblr.com.


	7. Patron Reposado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: Weather changes a relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be some uncomfortable moments toward the end of this chapter that could upset people who are sensitive to alcohol and consent issues. Please see the notes at the end of this chapter for a fuller description of these moments. No one is harmed, but I wouldn't want anyone to be upset. You can also message me for a summary or details if that would help you to be comfortable.

It had been seven weeks since he sent the letter.

The end of July brought with it a heatwave, that special London version of summer that poured unrelenting, hard-baking sunlight over the brick and concrete landscape and then splashed it far too liberally with humidity. The parks grew pale, and the streets smelled like cheap tobacco. People walked as though mired in molasses, and even the buses turned corners as if they resented having to make the effort.

The heat from the pub crept up the stairs and wrapped the flat in even more misery. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and pushed back his thick hair. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back. It was too hot to sleep, or to work, or to do anything, really, besides sit very still next to a fan and pray for an early winter.

Seven weeks. 

Rereading John’s old postcards had begun to feel like mockery. All the pictures featured sand and sun. And the content didn’t help, all tired jokes and vague platitudes. He could hear that sort of thing downstairs on any given evening. He wanted something new, something real, something that said John was thinking of him. Not London, not rain, not a cup of tea and a bowl of fish stew, but  _ him. _

Sherlock had finally done it, had said  _ that, _ and not even a postcard. 

For seven weeks. 

All right, then.

\---

Text to Lestrade: Anything on? Anything at all. -SH  
___Sorry to disappoint. It’s too hot for crime. -GL_  
There’s an appalling lack of fortitude in the criminal classes. -SH  
___They’ll make up for it when it cools down, I’m sure. -GL_  
We can only hope. -SH  
_ Eat some ice cream. I’ll call you if anything comes up. -GL_  
PLEASE DO -SH

Sherlock sighed. Even the comfort of solving crimes was being denied him. He'd had some successes since that first thrilling case: a couple of murders, a few old burglaries, and even one memorable faked kidnapping. It had all proven to be remarkably diverting. He had been pleasantly surprised by the ingenuity some individuals had shown in their lawbreaking; after talking to them personally, he wouldn’t have thought them so capable.

The pub, too, had been quiet. Locals would still come in for a single pint or a quick snack, but alcohol as entertainment had apparently lost its appeal three or four degrees ago.

Christ, it was hot, and he was so, so bored.

Eight weeks, now.

\---

Text from Mycroft:  _ Would you like an update, little brother? -MH _  
_ Hello? -MH _  
_ Sherlock? -MH _  
Fine. -SH  
Update, please. -SH  
__ All quiet. It’s hellishly hot there.-MH  
Well, that’s no surprise, is it. -SH  
_ It’s been even worse than normal. Their equipment has become somewhat unreliable in the heat, so they have limited their regular patrols. They’re staying close to base. -MH _  
Well, I’m sure he’s enjoyed the break. -SH  
Thank you, I suppose. -SH  
_ You’re welcome. -MH _  
_ If I may ask, are you all right? -MH _  
Have to go. Very busy here. -SH

Sherlock thumbed off his mobile and looked back out the open window. It was near midnight. Afghanistan was three and a half hours ahead of London; it was deepest night there. He would assume John was asleep, but army life ran on a twenty-four hour clock, so he could have been working. Or maybe he was sitting around with his mates, having a drink in what would pass for a pub on base. Did they have beer, or did they stick to whiskey? What would they do for ice? 

Heat had never appealed to Sherlock. Summer holidays with Mycroft and his parents at the beach had been hell, endless days of miserable sun and relentless ennui. Mycroft would sit with the adults, practicing the art of meaningless small talk, and then taking refuge in a book and the shade of an umbrella when the conversation got too tedious. Sherlock, told to “go have fun,” would hide in the shade of a boulder or tree and wish for it all to be over quickly. Every year, he faced the discomfort of angry, burned skin, and the harsh texture of salt-coated hair. And oh god, the freckles. The hateful, “oh, Sherlock, they’re so cute” freckles. His mother’s friends would go on and on while Mycroft smirked and Sherlock wished them all dead.

The trips became increasingly intolerable, for Sherlock and everyone who had to listen to him. Then one summer day, he started noticing the other boys, brown and lithe in their swim trunks. Their voices, once screeching and painful, had became deeper and more resonant, and their bodies taller and better defined. He noticed some of them noticing him, too, and suddenly the beach was a far more interesting place. His mother rejoiced at his newfound willingness to vacation; Mycroft smirked and shook his head in resignation. The boys all turned out to be idiots, of course, but at least there was something interesting to look at, and later, to touch.

John had been interesting, but now he was over three thousand miles away, three and a half hours ahead. There was no beach in the desert, no salty sea, no swim trunks or games of underwater ‘tag.’ There was only sand and war and the heat that was “hellish” enough to keep John’s team close to base. Too hot for surveillance equipment, too hot for engines. Too hot for computers.

Too hot for pens and postage stamps, apparently.

He felt a brief but vivid flash of pain, like a quick knife strike to the chest. 

Almost nine weeks.

\---

Text from Lestrade:  _ Something’s come up, if you’ve got some time. -GL _  
At last. Some kind soul went and got themselves murdered. I’ll send flowers. Details? -SH  
_ Not a murder. Robbery. Well, embezzlement. Electronic theft. -GL _  
The ultimate hot weather crime. You can do it in a walk in freezer, as long as you can get wifi. -SH  
_ There’s more to this than meets the eye, though. We could use your help. Will you come? -GL _  
God, yes. -SH

The crime was ambitious; brilliantly planned and carefully executed, Sherlock thought with no little admiration. Three enormous personal bank accounts held by minor members of royalty had been targeted and struck all at once. There were layers of redirection and misdirection, clever bits of code, and ingenious channelling through highly confidential back doors. Embassies, banks, universities, corporations; the trails led through them all. Government officials pulled at their collars as they nervously answered questions as vaguely as possible. The investigators hit several near dead-ends that only a few hours of sleep or (in one case) a towering strop broke through. It took four days, copious coffee, and all of Lestrade’s patience, but eventually they solved the case. His image of a laptop in a freezer wasn’t that far off in the end, and the suspect went without a fight. For Scotland Yard, it was a solid win. Lestrade slapped Sherlock on the back twice and introduced him to the Chief Inspector. The press conference was well attended, and Sherlock was credited by name as part of the team. 

Later that night, sitting in the dark near-cool of the pub, Sherlock frowned down into his drink. It had been a good case, complicated and intellectually challenging, but now he was alone again with nothing to do. He’d already become acquainted with post-case let down, but this felt different somehow. It all felt incomplete, like something had been left undone. He missed John, yes, missed having him along on these adventures, but that wasn’t new. Tonight he felt unsettled and restless, like he was overlooking something important. It was not a good feeling.

He threw back the rest of his ale. He hated beer, but it was too bloody hot for scotch.

Nine weeks and three days.

\---

Text:  _ Well done, little brother. I saw your name in the papers. -MH _  
Do you have any idea what time it is? Shouldn’t you be climbing back into your coffin by now? -SH  
_ Oh, were you sleeping? Do you go in for that sort of thing now? -MH _  
Sod off. -SH  
_ Dear me, we are grumpy, aren’t we. Well, I’ll let you get your beauty sleep. But as I was saying, well done. -MH _  
_ There are rewards for this sort of thing, you know. It will be rather substantial in this case. You’ll be entitled to a share of it. -MH _  
Lovely. I’ll get the floors refinished and give the cook a pay rise. Was there anything else? No? Excellent. Goodbye. -SH  
_ As a matter of fact, I have something for you. -MH _  
For Christ’s sake, Mycroft, can you not take a hint? -SH  
_ Would you like to see a picture? -MH _  
A picture? -SH  


_ <image.001_Watson.jpg> _

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.

Text: When was this taken? -SH  
_ Two days ago. It was included with this morning’s report. -MH  
_

It was John, glowing, fit and well. His hair had been burnished by the sun, so blond it was nearly silver, and his golden skin was deeply tanned. He was wearing a khaki t-shirt, and Sherlock could see the outline of white skin on his neck from the chain of his dog tags. His arms were crossed in front of him, and Sherlock could see that the muscles of his chest and shoulders were better defined than when he had left. He was smiling broadly, the corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter. He looked--good.

Sherlock was so taken with the sight of him that the deduction took almost a full minute to register. His eyes narrowed. Surely Mycroft wasn’t that stupid.

Text: This photo has been altered. It’s been cropped and photoshopped. -SH  
_ Really? I don’t think so. -MH _  
There’s a place near John’s feet where a shadow has been removed, and his sleeve is too straight-edged, like he was leaning against something that was taken out. -SH  
…  
Mycroft. -SH  
_ I didn’t want to upset you. I just thought you’d want to see him. -MH _  
WHAT. -SH  
_ I believe he was standing next to one of his colleagues, Bill Murray. -MH _  
_ He’s a nurse. He was transferred in about two months ago. Reports say they have become good friends. -MH  _  
Good friends. -SH  
Tell me. -SH  
_ I don’t have any reports of anything untoward. -MH _  
_ It’s not necessarily a romantic attachment. -MH _  
_ It’s not uncommon to make close friends under combat conditions. They are quite literally under fire. You want people to “have your back,” as it were. -MH _  
How is it you manage to make things so much worse whilst ostensibly trying to comfort me? -SH  
_ Not my intention, little brother. -MH _  
_ I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. -MH _  
_ I am confident he will come back to you. -MH _  
…  
_ Sherlock? -MH _  
Thank you for the picture, Mycroft. I’m glad to see him looking well. -SH  


Sherlock pressed the off switch, and stared down at the black screen for a full minute. Then he reared back, and with a roar, threw the phone with impressive force across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered.

He fought back a sob as he buried his face in his hands.

Ten weeks today.

XXX

Sherlock didn’t eat and barely slept, but he'd finally stopped counting the days. He managed the pub, tended the bar, and stared out the window at night, resolutely not thinking of smile-crinkled eyes and edited shadows. 

The heat remained, sticky and sick. Records were broken and left in the all too literal dust, and tempers felt permanently frayed. A thick grime settled on every outdoor surface. The fug became almost normal, something expected. The weather stopped being news.

Finally, one evening, there were clouds forming on the horizon, and a hint that maybe, just maybe, the heat was about to break. People hurried home that evening, anxious with hope. The air was almost abuzz with disordered energy, a welcome change after so much stillness. Even the trees seemed on edge. 

Just after dark, a man came into the pub, lean and handsome, and took a seat at the bar. He had dark hair, fashionably tousled, and black, flashing eyes. He wore fitted, stylish jeans and a short sleeved dark blue polo shirt with the cuffs snug around well-defined arms. He wasn’t tall, but he had a presence that made Sherlock instinctively stand up straighter. The man placed his manicured hands on the brass rail of the bar.

“Quiet tonight, I see,” he said, looking around the room. He had a musical voice, with just a hint of an Irish lilt. His gaze settled back on Sherlock, and he smiled. “Just the two of us.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s been that way lately, with the heat and all.” He put down the glass he’d been polishing and offered his usual bland proprietor’s smile. “What can I get you?”

The man bit his lip and quickly looked Sherlock up and down. “Have a drink with me.”

Sherlock took a step back and shook his head. “I usually don’t.”

“Oh, go on. There’s no one else around. Have a drink with me.”

Sherlock started to reply, but then stopped and looked at the man appraisingly. He was attractive, yes, but there was something playful there too, a sort of self-aware charm, and just the tiniest suggestion of danger. The man stared back, his gaze open, but with a hint of challenge. Sherlock surprised himself by saying, “All right. Just the one.” 

The man clapped his hands once with delight. “Brilliant! We’ll drink to the oncoming storm. Let’s see, a good hot weather drink...what’s your favourite tequila?”

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow. “For sipping or shots?”

The man chuckled. “Oh, you naughty thing. Shots tonight, I think, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded and turned to the shelf. He picked up a bottle from the back and silently held it out for the man’s consideration.

“Reposado? Nice. I should have known you’d be a man of complexity. Willing to wait. I can appreciate that. I’m a blanco man myself, but then I tend to be...impatient. Keen, you might say.” The man lowered his gaze, looking up at Sherlock from under thick black lashes. “Fervent. Ardent. Eager," he said with deliberation.

Sherlock felt sweat prickle at his brow, but he suspected it wasn't from the heat. Flushing, he turned to pour two healthy shots. He slid one across in front of the man, and picked up the other. “Cheers,” he said, and they both threw the drinks back.

The man placed his glass back down on the bar. “Ah, that’s the stuff,” he said, with a tiny shudder. “Ever been to Mexico?”

Sherlock shook his head, fleetingly wondering why he was both relieved and disappointed at the change of topic. “Um, no. You?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. Dirty place, like dusty dirty, you know? Great food, though, and decent liquor. The tequila flows like water, and it’s cheap. Beautiful sunsets.” The man considered his hands. “I should get back there, if I can find the time.”

“Do you travel much?” Sherlock asked, with polite interest.

“Yeah, here and there. It’s part of the job, I’m afraid.” 

“May I ask what you do?”

The man pointed to the bottle. “Have another with me first, and then we’ll talk some more.”

Sherlock hesitated, but poured two more. They clinked the glasses and threw back the shots. Sherlock’s eyes watered, and the man gave a tiny cough. 

“You were saying?” Sherlock asked.

“Right. Business. I’m a consultant.”

“What kind of consultant?”

“All kinds.” The man met his eyes. “I can do anything you need--or want--me to.”

Sherlock involuntarily shifted his hips, and frowned when he recognized the movement. His breathing changed a bit, grew deeper, and there was a warmth easing its way through his veins. Vaguely, he tried to remember if he had eaten today. The second shot had been a bad idea.

“...Paris, Berlin, Perth, and Cairo this year so far. Probably headed to New York in a couple of weeks.” 

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. “And what brings you to London?”

The man shrugged and briefly looked away. “I had a good little project going here, but we hit a snag. I thought it best to come see to it myself. It’s a bloody inconvenience, I’ll tell you.”

Sherlock studied his face. “Hmm. That’s a shame. What kind of snag?”

“Unpredicted interference.” The man’s voice took on a slight hint of frustration. “Some people just can’t leave well enough alone, you know?”

Sherlock thought of Mycroft and the picture, and snorted. “Oh, I know.”

The man’s eyes again found Sherlock’s face. His gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock felt them parting slightly. The man’s breath hitched. 

“How about another?” the man asked, his voice husky.

Sherlock looked down at the man’s hands, small and elegant, but strong in their way. As he watched, the man started slowly rubbing the back of one hand with the thumb of the other. It was almost hypnotic.

What would it be like, he wondered, to let this man touch him? How long had it been since he’d been touched, caressed like--that? The answer came to mind, but he pushed it away. It felt like it had been a lifetime.

“Just a couple of friends here talking. That’s all,” the man said quietly. “Passing the time together, waiting for the rain to start. Just one more.” He stopped the motion long enough to slide his glass back across the bar. “It won’t hurt,” he whispered, looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

Outside the pub, a distant rumble of thunder echoed in the empty street. The hair stood up on Sherlock’s arms. 

He poured the drinks. This time, when he slid the glass across the bar, the man reached for it and allowed the tips of their fingers to meet. Sherlock hesitated for just a second before pulling back, and caught just enough of a smirk from the corner of his eye to make him bold. He tipped back his head and swallowed the shot. When he lowered his chin, he found the man staring at his long neck. The man let his gaze slide down to Sherlock’s chest, down to his abdomen where it disappeared behind the bar, and then slowly back up, along Sherlock’s neck and ear, then across his jaw to his mouth, and then finally up to his eyes.

Sherlock’s heart was pounding in his ears, and his hands were shaking. In his peripheral vision, he noticed the man’s full glass still sitting on the bar. The man was staring at him, his black eyes boring into him, and Sherlock was finding it difficult to breathe.

The man licked his lips. “Do you live nearby?” he whispered.

Sherlock stared at his mouth. It was full and sensuous, and looked--soft. The man leaned over the bar, slowly, just a little.

A crash of nearby thunder made them both flinch. Sherlock looked out the window into the street, where huge drops of rain were just beginning to hit the window, tracing trails through the thick, dry dust. Within moments, it was pouring, and the sound of it fairly roared in the quiet room.

The man chuckled, almost to himself. “Jumpy,” he murmured, shaking his head a tiny bit. “You need to relax.” He reached across and gently placed his hand on Sherlock’s wrist, and all of Sherlock’s focus poured down into that point of contact. The hand was warm, even in the heat between them, but surprisingly smooth as glass. The man moved his thumb ever so slightly, and the edges of Sherlock’s vision went white. Distantly, he wondered if the atoms of their hands were exchanging electrons, if the boundaries of their bodies were already being broached. The man shifted his hand, closing his fingers just a bit, and Sherlock almost whimpered. They were close enough now to be breathing in each other’s air; the man smelled of tequila, and cedar with musk, high quality tobacco, and the merest hint of gunpowder.

Another flash of lightning; another crash of thunder. The storm was directly overhead.

The man had never looked away; Sherlock looked back at him now, the rhythm of the rain in his ears and the image of rivers carving through sand in his head. Another boom of thunder overhead put him in mind of gunfire, the whistle and crash of missiles. A flash of lightning through the windows, and narrowed night-black eyes were replaced in his mind’s eye by smiling blue ones. Sherlock clutched desperately at the bar. He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

What he said was, “Last call.”

The man blinked. It took a full minute for Sherlock’s heart rate to return to anywhere close to normal. Sherlock watched as disappointment, regret--and was that satisfaction? Yes, yes, it was--passed across the man’s face in turns.

“Of course. It’s closing time.” The man leaned back, smiling faintly. “Thank you for a most stimulating evening.”

Sherlock nodded. The tequila still pulsed in his veins, and he was desperate to get upstairs and alone. “The drinks are on me. Do come by again some time.” He offered his hand across the bar. “It was a pleasure meeting you--”

“Richard. Richard Brook,” the man said, taking Sherlock’s hand and shaking it once, very slowly, lingering an extra beat before releasing it. He took one last moment to look Sherlock over, and then turned on his heel. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again very soon, Sherlock Holmes.”

The man stepped out into the dark, wet, rumbling street, letting the door slam shut behind him. Sherlock flipped the lock, turned off the lights, and fled to the safety of his flat.

The night was filled with shivers and gasps, anger and regret, dreams of flashing dark eyes turned to knives and laughing blue eyes turned to sorrow. Sherlock slept just enough to wake up sober and exhausted.

It wasn’t until morning and after several cups of coffee that Sherlock realised that he’d never actually given the man his name.

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A man plies Sherlock with alcohol in an attempt at seduction. He is persistent, but not aggressive. Sherlock is ultimately unharmed.
> 
> Eternal thanks to Kedgeree, 221bJen and EnduringChill for their invaluable beta services.


	8. Le Notaire Columbard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt: some sort of reference to a library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags all still apply, except in this chapter, Sherlock flashes back to a near overdose event. Also, there is VERY oblique reference to child abuse, mostly just that it happened (NOT to any of the characters).
> 
> Please read the notes at the bottom if you are curious why this update took so long. Thank you for your patience.

Sherlock frowned and slammed his laptop shut. Nothing. Nothing on any search engine, nothing on LexisNexis, nothing on any business school alumni lists. He’d been looking for weeks now, and  _ nothing. _ For a man who claimed to be a consultant, who was apparently meant to be available for hire, Richard Brook was certainly hard to find. 

He’d tried repeatedly to put the man out of his thoughts, but in quiet moments his mind would wander back to their strangely charged meeting on that stormy night.

He closed his eyes now and summoned up the Brook’s face in his memory, suppressing a little thrill of--fear? Attraction? Disgust? Surely it was only disgust. He scowled, attempting to remember some detail, some clue that would give him insight into who this man really was. All he could remember, though, was the sparkle in the man’s eyes, his manic grin, the perfect pressure of his hand on Sherlock’s wrist as Sherlock had struggled to maintain his self control under the onslaught of alcohol--

Sherlock opened his eyes and snarled. Bloody tequila.

He was fully aware he was using this new obsession to replace another, but he thought it would probably prove to be a healthy decision in the end. He glanced over at the wall of the flat where the maps of Afghanistan still hung. At night, Sherlock still dreamed of blue eyes, endless sunlight, and blood on the sand. Now, though, when he woke gasping, after he found his bearings in the weak London darkness, he would remember that John had a colleague at his side, possibly (probably) in his bed. There was someone else to protect him now, to care for him, and Sherlock’s obsessive worry was doing no one any good. It made him very sad, but it was, simply, true.

So back to the puzzle of Richard Brook.

Sherlock had asked the other local shopkeepers if the man’s description sounded familiar, but no one had been able to help. After some thought, he’d concluded he couldn’t really turn to Lestrade. No crime had been committed--being creepy and lascivious wasn’t illegal, after all--and he didn’t want to risk losing Lestrade’s good favour. No, there was only one option if he was going to get to the bottom of this, a man whose regard Sherlock had lost long ago. God, he hated to even consider it, but he was going to have to call--

His text alert chimed. 

Text from Mycroft:  _ Good morning, little brother. _ _ -MH _

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft always did have impeccable timing, the bastard.

I was just thinking of you. Speak of the devil, and he doth appear. -SH  
_ Yes, you are ever so amusing. I thought I should probably check and see that you are still among the living. You haven’t asked for an update on your doctor in some time. -MH _

Sherlock winced. That was true. It still hurt too much to ask. Old habits died screaming, in his experience, though, so--

Is that why you’re bothering me? Do you have news? -SH

A long pause followed, and Sherlock gripped his phone tightly. 

_ No. His team has rotated off patrol duty and has been spending most of their time at base. It’s been relatively quiet over there lately, in any case. -MH _

Sherlock sighed, relieved despite himself.

Good. I’m sure he and Murray are putting the time to good use. -SH  
_ Jealousy does not suit you, brother. -MH _

Sherlock sighed again.

If there’s no news, why are you bothering me? Don’t you have a dictator to topple somewhere? -SH  
_ I need to ask something of you. -MH  
_ _ A favour. -MH _

Sherlock blinked. This was unprecedented.

A favour? -SH  
_ Yes. -MH _

Sherlock was tempted to turn him down without further discussion, just on the principle of the thing, but he couldn’t help but be curious.

Let’s hear it, then. -SH  
_ You are going to be offered a case very shortly. I’m asking you not to take it. -MH_  
And how do you know about cases? -SH  
_ Your friend Lestrade from Scotland Yard is on his way right now to ask for your help. I’m asking you to refuse. -MH _

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft was a meddling, pedantic, patronising pain in the arse, but truth be told, he didn’t ask for much. He wouldn’t be asking for something lightly. Still, it rankled to have Mycroft insert himself into his work with the Yard, this fragile but thrilling new part of Sherlock's life.

You know you’re just guaranteeing my involvement by asking. -SH

No answer for a long minute, and then Sherlock’s phone rang. He looked down at Mycroft’s name on the screen in astonishment and then raised the phone to his ear.

“You  _ called  _ me. What the hell is this about, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s voice was unexpectedly careful, lacking its usual undercurrent of lecture. “This case is a matter of national and international security, Sherlock. The Yard has no idea what it is dealing with, or whom it might be threatening. You would do well to stay out of it.”

Sherlock’s world was shifting on its axis. Was Mycroft concerned for him? Or was this self-interest speaking? Sherlock forced an angry sniff.

“You think I’ll fail.”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft replied quickly. “I’m certain you’ll succeed. That’s why I need you to walk away.”

Sherlock bit his lip. Outside in the hall, he heard Lestrade’s distinctive stomping coming up the stairs.

Mycroft’s voice came softly into his ear. “Please.”

The expected knock came at the door. “I’ll...consider your request. All right? Now I have to go.” He clicked off the call and opened the door. “Detective Inspector.”

“Can I come in?” Lestrade was as agitated and on edge as Sherlock had ever seen him. This didn’t bode well for Sherlock’s ability to resist, he thought.

“Of course.” Sherlock stood back and motioned for him to come in. “Tea?”

“No, thank you.” Lestrade took a deep breath. “Look, I really need your help on this case. It’s a big one.”

Sherlock sat down in his armchair, nodding at John’s--no, at the  _ other _ armchair as he did so. “Please go on.”

Lestrade perched on the edge of the chair and clutched at his knees. “It’s about kids, and it’s bad,” he said simply. “Apparently there’s a file of allegations of child abuse by politicians and other public types. Sex stuff, and other--well. A former cabinet official--Employment Secretary, if I remember right--pulled it all together. Huge investigation, took her almost a decade. Nothing was ever said or done about it, and she finally died, no apparent foul play, and now--”

“The file is missing,” Sherlock said calmly. “Stolen?”

Lestrade sighed. “We have to rule out that it’s just been misplaced somehow.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I guess no one was even sure if it existed. I think there’s still some question there, actually, but some historians were going through her journals and found clear references to the evidence. I’m not sure why the government never took action on what they had. Pretty impressive investigation, honestly. It’s amazing it all stayed under the radar.”

It hadn’t, thought Sherlock. Mycroft’s agitation made perfect sense now.

“The Secretary’s records and documents were donated to a university library. The researchers and librarians have mounted a huge search, but they haven’t found anything. They didn’t want to alert the government, what with the nature of the stuff, so they called Scotland Yard in to help. It’s evidentiary material, so--” Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock swallowed an inappropriate chuckle. Despite the intentions of the researchers, the government was certainly alert now. Mycroft must have been livid. “Which university?” he asked.

“Cambridge.”

“Ah. That’s a problem.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. “There are one hundred and fourteen libraries at Cambridge.”

Lestrade leaned forward anxiously. “There’s a main one, though, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied slowly. “There is. Cambridge University Library, called the UL. Currently holds around eight million items, including one and a half million maps. As a legal deposit library, it receives over one hundred thousand new submissions a year.”

Lestrade looked surprised. “You know it well, then.”

“I did go to Cambridge.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade’s exaggerated double take. “Don’t act surprised. I’m sure you ran a background check the morning after I served you the perfect scotch. For the sake of my faith in Scotland Yard, tell me you did.”

Lestrade dropped his head and grinned. “All right, you caught me. But that just proves you’re the perfect man for the job.” He held out his hands in supplication. “Can you help us narrow the search, at least?”

Sherlock hesitated. Mycroft’s “please” still echoed in his ears.

“Come on,” Lestrade wheedled. “I’ll owe you a favour.”

Sherlock tilted his head, considering. Lestrade’s favour might get him closer to solving the mystery of Richard Brook, and after all, all they were asking for was a little research assistance. He could hear Mycroft scoffing at all the justifications.

But Mycroft also had to have known he couldn’t resist a good reason to revisit the Cambridge University Library, now that he was older and wiser.

“All right,” he said, his mind made up. “I’ll help you look. At least for a while.”

_ Sorry, Mycroft, _ he thought fleetingly.

\-----

The town had grown, he realised, but the feeling of Cambridge hadn’t changed. The university streets were still made of cobblestone, the buildings still of brick, and the chapel entrances still of marble. On his walk to the library from his hotel, he passed a sandwich shop he was certain hadn’t updated its clapboard menu since he’d bought his first lunch there. The tea shop he had frequented still had the same awning, and on the corner, the chemist’s still had the same neon sign in the window. New employees with fresh faces stood behind the counters, but the storefronts, the smells, the sounds all remained the same. It was comforting in its way.

He resolutely ignored a familiar alleyway, picked up his pace, and turned the corner toward the library. It was a impressive structure, large and solid-looking, its tower already visible to him from blocks away on this clear, sunny day. He smiled to see it, even as he derided himself for being nostalgic. He had more good memories here than bad, after all. A little affection was understandable.

He gave his name to the librarian at the front desk, absently nodded his thanks as she gave him a visitor’s pass, and finally stepped inside. He took a deep breath, and thought fleetingly of the centuries of dust floating in that cool air, the lifetimes of words hovering like an invisible cloud in those high ceilings. All the history, all that knowledge there for the knowing. It felt like coming home.

And this time, maybe, the evidence of unspeakable crimes was hidden somewhere in those stone walled rooms, patiently waiting for him to find it. His already thrilling heart rate picked up at the thought. It was time to go to work.

He strode down the main hallway past the long tables and banks of shelves until he cut sharply to the right, winding through the turns with certainty until he reached a familiar spot. There, in a raised shadowy corner, just out of reach of the daylight streaming through the windows, was a very particular carrel. 

_ “Back again, I see, Mr Holmes.” _

_ Sherlock’s head popped up, and he felt his face start to flush as he recognised the tall, sandy-haired figure smiling down at him. He quickly pushed back from the desk just far enough to stand. _

_ “Yes. I mean, good morning, Professor. Yes, I am.” _

_ “Staked your claim on a carrel, already, I see.” The professor shifted the books he was carrying to one hand and patted the shelf. “Home away from home.” _

_ “Yes, sir. They told me I could leave some things here if I kept it neat.” _

_ “Hmm. Not much light here,” the professor said appraisingly, looking around at the windows. “You could move over a bit and spare yourself some eye strain.” _

_ “I like the privacy, sir. Besides, I’ll be doing most of my reading at night, so the light won’t matter. I’ll bring in a lamp. This is fine, sir.” _

_ The man nodded and leaned his hip against the desk. “I didn’t get to speak to you much the other day. Is your mother well?” _

_ “Oh, yes, sir. She’s quite well, thank you.” _

_ “I heard her lecture in my own undergraduate days, you know. She was extraordinary. I was quite surprised that she stepped away.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Transferred her ambitions to her children, I imagine.” _

_ Sherlock barely suppressed a snort. “Yes, sir. You could say that.” _

_ “Well, I’m sure you’ll do her proud.” The professor lifted his chin toward the stack of books on Sherlock’s desk. “You know, you have a few years ahead of you. You needn’t try to read the entire library in your first week,” he said, with a sparkle in his eye. _

_ “Oh.” Sherlock bit his lip, embarrassed. “Yes, sir. It’s only--I’ve been waiting a long time to get in here, sir, and I just--” _

_ “Can’t help yourself.” The professor hummed and looked around the room. “I understand, Mr Holmes, believe me. But one must eat and sleep, at least occasionally.” _

_ “Boring,” Sherlock replied automatically, his eyes widening with shock as he registered what he had said. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, sir, I’m--” he fumbled, blushing outright now. The professor was laughing, and despite his mortification, some part of Sherlock’s brain registered the deep tone of his chuckle and the smile lines at the corners of his surprisingly vivid green eyes. He was beautiful, Sherlock realised, even as he scrambled to explain himself. _

_ “Oh, Mr Holmes,” the professor said, wiping his eyes. “I think we are going to become great friends, you and I.”  _

_ Sherlock blinked, and blinked again, and a hesitant smile came to his own lips. “I hope so, sir,” he said, and meant it.  _

_ If later, in his rooms, he took himself in hand to the memory of that laughter and those smiling green eyes, no one had to know. There was no shame in preferring men, he knew. The shame was in caring at all. _

Now, it was his good fortune that the desk was unoccupied. Sherlock dropped his bag on the seat. This wasn’t a sentimental decision, not at all. Really, he could hardly be expected to work side by side with a bunch of clueless, mouth-breathing bobbies. This was a good, private spot, and from the slightly elevated platform he could see across the large hall to the glassed-in conference room, where the Scotland Yard types were coming and going. In fact, he could clearly see Lestrade, who was checking his watch and probably wondering where his consultant was.

Sherlock took another deep breath of the cool, storied air and started to wind his way down the platform and over to the command center.

\-----

Throughout the afternoon, the chatter of the officers had been distracting, annoying, and at times frankly disturbing, but finally, the first day of searching was behind them. Sherlock politely declined the offer of a collegial dinner in a local pub, choosing instead to retire to his rooms with a sleeve of chips and the wireless password. He needed to take some time to process all he’d seen and overheard. But first, he needed some quiet. 

His phone chimed. He read the preview, grimaced, and swiped across the screen with greasy fingers.

_ I asked you not to go. -MH_  
You know I had to. Children, Mycroft. -SH  
_ Most of those children are adults now. -MH  
_ And that negates the need for justice? -SH

He could almost hear Mycroft’s exasperated sigh in the silence that followed. Sherlock waited him out.

_ All I ask is that if you find it, you talk to me before you do anything else.  _ _ Is that too much to ask? -MH _

Sherlock stopped to consider the question. Not for the first time, he wondered about Mycroft’s motives in this case. There were possibilities he didn’t want to have to consider. But still--he supposed it couldn’t hurt to grant this one request.

All right. I will. -SH  
_ Thank you. -MH _

He continued frowning down at the phone for some time after it went dark, the chips forgotten on the side table.

\-----

After the first few days, Sherlock had established a routine, much of which was devoted to avoiding the investigators from the Met. They were ineffectual idiots at best, and it was apparent he was the best chance the police had at finding the information. Fortunately, it became obvious to Lestrade as well, and so at his command, Sherlock was mostly left alone. He flipped through boxes, scanned reports and journals, and slowly became something of an expert on the records of one Beatrice Young, former Employment Secretary and late of the House of Commons. She had been quite a crusader, mused Sherlock, as he flipped through the minutes of a heated debate over housing policy. She was also a closet sherry enthusiast and a skilled dominatrix, but he suspected those hobbies weren’t public knowledge. It was all there if you looked for it, but of course, no one ever would.

But he’d found no sign of the file, as of yet. He stood and stretched, his eyes lazily scanning the shelves around him, until they lit on a dark head of hair that just peeked above a shelf across the way. The head to which the hair was attached was still and obviously looking down, and the hair itself gleamed in the indirect light from the windows. Sherlock was suddenly unable to look away.

_ “God, I can’t believe you’re a virgin,” Victor whispered, his dark eyes fixed on where his cock disappeared into Sherlock’s eager mouth. “You’re gagging for it, aren’t you.” _

_ Sherlock whimpered and shuffled his knees just a little closer. He was new to this, but Victor had introduced himself in the library after class one late afternoon, and within a minute Sherlock had deduced three things: Victor was attracted to him, was ridiculously easy to stimulate visually, and had a huge innocence kink. He wasn’t bad looking, all dark eyes and shining black hair, and Sherlock had been curious for a long time, so he had licked his lips twice and responded to one weak innuendo with a wide-eyed stare. Victor had nearly tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to pull a willing Sherlock into the little-used Victorian Children’s Literature section in the corner. Sherlock’s clumsiness with Victor’s zipper and the awkward way he fell to his knees only served to turn Victor on more. His whispered “I’ve never done this before” resulted in a twitch of Victor’s cock and a muffled moan. Sherlock knew from his reading that these were positive signs. He licked his lips one last time and set to work. Once he got used to the pressure and the taste, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and judging by the sounds Victor was making, his efforts were satisfactory. He smiled and hummed in relief. This was something else he could learn to do well. _

_ Victor didn’t give him any warning, but Sherlock wouldn’t have known what to do with it anyway. He suddenly found his mouth flooded with bitter, salty fluid, and he swallowed reflexively, smiling around Victor’s cock at the faint “oh, god” from above him. He hadn’t even messed up his suit. He didn’t know why he’d been so worried. _

_ After another minute, Victor pulled him up and roughly spun him around so that his back was against the stacks. Sherlock was caught off guard by the sudden shift in Victor’s demeanour. Instead of the half-closed eyes of post-orgasm torpor, Victor looked wide-awake, almost angry, like he was jealous. Possessive. “I was your first,” Victor spat out. “You’ll always be a little bit mine now. You’ll always remember me.” Sherlock started to pull away, alarmed, but Victor leaned in and whispered low in his ear, “Let me. Come on,” and drew one finger down the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. His eyes glittered at Sherlock’s hard swallow and sharp nod, and he quickly reached for Sherlock’s zipper and opened his flies. “Ah, you tart,” Victor gritted out between his teeth as he slipped his hand into the opening. “No pants. You  _ were _ begging for it, weren’t you. Well, I gave it to you. Now lick my hand.” He held his palm to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock blinked, confused, but did as he was bid. Then Victor wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp at the sensation as Victor squeezed once before starting to stroke. _

_ “I guess--I’m lucky--I found--you first,” Victor said in time with the upward jerks of his wrist, and Sherlock whimpered and surrendered, slumping into the shelves. He absently noted Victor’s legs pressing tightly against him, holding him still, but he was more focused on the feeling of Victor’s hand around him, the friction and the warmth, the callouses of Victor’s hand against his skin. Victor was staring into his face, eyes narrowed, hungrily scanning each expression, grinning when Sherlock winced at a particularly vigorous movement. _

_ “Give it up for me,” Victor growled, as he braced one broad hand against Sherlock’s chest, holding him even more firmly in place. He sped up his strokes, jerking him roughly now. Sherlock gasped again and closed his eyes, feeling the burn of his impending crisis in his skin, the pressure in his belly that slowly curled down into his bollocks. He clenched his teeth to hold back another whimper.  _

_ “You’re so pretty,” Victor whispered, and Sherlock’s eyes popped open. Victor was staring at him, but now the shadows were setting, and Sherlock couldn’t make out his expression. He could almost think he was looking at him with--fondness. He imagined another face looking at him that way, smiling green eyes hot with lust, sandy hair mussed and twisted with sweat-- _

_ He froze for a moment and then came, hard, in Victor’s hand, pulsing and hot. Victor milked his cock expertly as Sherlock’s knees finally gave out and he melted even more heavily against the bookshelves. His head fell back onto the shelf behind him, and he blinked as he lazily regained his ability to focus. He looked up at the high, carved ceilings and slanted, fading angles of light, and it occurred to him that he had just lost his virginity in the Cambridge University Library.  _

_ He couldn’t help it. He started to laugh.  _

\---

He awoke that night from a dream of John, a good dream.

It had been the John of their early days together, bright and energetic. They’d been out walking together in London, just walking, and passed by a campus building, some amalgam of UCL and King’s in that fuzzy way of dreams. Sherlock had pointed out something, some person or feature that John hadn’t noticed, and John had looked up at him with such warmth and affection that it had made his head buzz.

Then also in the way of dreams, they were suddenly in a shadowed alley, naked and pressed together, panting and clutching. The dream was quiet, like a church, like Sunday morning in the city, but he had John’s voice in his ear, humming and cursing and moaning, finally whispering Sherlock’s name like a wish when he came. And in the dream, Sherlock looked up, up past the closely stacked bricks to the sky above, which was blue and bright, and he knew in that moment that he was wanted.

\---

He was surly and snappish the next morning, though he doubted any of the officers would sense a difference from the day before. He hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.The aftercurrents of his dream had left him...anxious, somehow. On edge. And then to top it off, Mycroft’s daily text had come early, at 5AM. Sherlock hadn’t answered. Mycroft didn’t have any news anyway, and that wasn’t helping his mood, either.

He had a headache. He was hungry. Above all, he was tired. He took a large gulp of his too hot coffee and laid his head down on the desk. Maybe it was a subconscious response to his dream of the night before, some sort of emotional hangover. He’d never dealt well with those.

_ The next day in class, Victor ignored him. Sherlock told himself it was what he had expected, and in truth, it was, but it didn’t make it any less painful. This earth shattering thing had occurred the evening before, and today it was as if he was invisible. It had happened, he told himself later, as he sat slumped at his carrel. It had happened. They had touched each other, and it had happened, and now he had been forgotten. He glanced in the direction of  _ that _ corner, and felt an unexpectedly sharp twinge of regret. _

_ But then, a flash of anger. No, he thought. No regret. It had happened. They had touched each other. Victor had looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Victor had taken from him, which meant Sherlock had had something to give. It had  _ happened.

_ Sherlock looked down at the surface of his desk, scarred as it was with decades of cuts and gouges and pen marks. There were a few carvings around the corners, mostly initials and curse words. Sherlock had always resented them, resented the marring of what to him represented a blank page, full of potential, but with a flash of insight he suddenly understood. It was defiance. In the face of all the history and knowledge surrounding them, despite the indifference of everyone around them, these people had left a mark. Something had happened to embolden them, to make them stand strong in the face of despair. “I was here,” those marks said, and those marks would last, not forever, but for a very long time. Someone else would see them, at some time in the future, and would know that this person had existed, had been in this space. _

_ Suddenly Sherlock very much wanted to leave his mark.  _

_ He sat up straight and pulled open the drawer to look for something sharp, but found instead a small manila envelope with his name on it. Puzzled, he unsealed the flap, The envelope contained a small, sealed packet of fine white powder and a note reading, “Hope to see you around the stacks again sometime. XX Victor.” _

_ Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued. He knew what this was, had seen other students in pubs or common rooms on the weekends, huddled over tables, casting furtive glances over their shoulders. It wasn’t unusual, really, here among the most driven and most privileged of Britain’s youth, for someone to seek chemical assistance in speeding up or slowing down. He’d never thought he’d try it, but…he absently rubbed at his chest, feeling the ache in his heart ease just a little. Victor had left him a gift. That was good, wasn’t it? And this was something new, besides. He couldn’t help but be curious. _

_ Decision made, Sherlock palmed the packet and headed for the toilets. _

Sherlock sighed and sat back in his chair. He ran his hand across the marred surface of the desk, where his initials were nowhere to be seen.

\-----

_ Update, please. -MH_  
Nothing yet. No sign of it. -SH  
_ We are certain that it's there. I'm surprised it's so well buried. I suppose that’s good news. -MH_  
Is it? -SH  
_ This is bigger than you realise, Sherlock. I told you before. You don’t want to be a part of this. -MH  
_

Sherlock hesitated. The dark thought that he had pushed to the depths of his mind forced its way back to the surface. There was nothing for it. He’d have to ask.

Is this personal? -SH

A long pause. Sherlock bit his lip and forced himself to wait it out.

_ Are you asking if my name appears in the file? -MH_  
Does it? -SH  


Another long pause. Sherlock could hear his own heart pounding in his ears.

_ It breaks my heart that you feel you have to ask. The answer is no. -MH  
_ _ But there are those who would burn this country down to keep those secrets, and my fear of that is very real. -MH _

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath and let it out slowly, releasing tension he hadn’t known he’d been carrying. He really had known better. He wasn’t sure what to say now, but as he hesitated over the keypad, another text came through.

_ We both know that if you keep looking, you will find it. What are you going to do then? -MH _

Sherlock dragged his hand down his face. Suddenly, he felt very tired.

I’ll keep you posted. -SH

\-----

The next day dawned stormy and wet. Sherlock skipped his usual coffee stop with its outdoor queue and headed directly to the library. Tea from the library tea shop would have to do.

He cut down a side street, around a corner, and paused under an awning by an alley that would land him behind the main library building. He’d been avoiding this route, but it would save him several minutes, and the rain was really coming down. He swallowed and steeled himself. It would be fine. He turned the corner and started down the alley.

The storm had forced the leaves of the surrounding trees to the ground, and the pavement was slick and hazardous. Instinctively, Sherlock slowed. The leaves made a distinctive squishing sound under the soles of his slick leather shoes, one he registered easily over the rumbling sound of the rain. It was a familiar sound. As he neared the back entrance to the library, the one the employees favoured, he took a minute to consider the tall, thick black steel door and the crumbling pavement leading up to it. There was a new keypad, but they hadn’t done anything about the flooding, even after all these years.

_ Usually Sherlock would go to great lengths to avoid the huge puddle when it formed outside the door, but tonight he didn’t particularly care. He stumbled through the water to brace himself against the brick wall. Hand shaking, he entered in the security code. A particularly visceral set of deductions about an assistant librarian’s porn collection had resulted in his own set of keys and a list of the codes some time ago, in exchange for an earnest pledge of silence. They had come in handy; his sleep patterns had never been normal, and he’d always preferred the library to his rooms. He felt safe at his carrel, surrounded by books and able to hide. He’d whiled away many a lonely night with a chemistry text, or a criminology journal, or even, on really bad nights, a novel. _

_ He swayed as he fumbled with the key. He hadn’t come here to read tonight. _

_ Sherlock had bought the heroin from one of the faceless ghosts who haunted certain alleys on campus at night, and were never seen in the daylight. They all knew him by now. “Feeling the stress, posh?” the man had asked guilelessly, and Sherlock had only grunted in reply. They’d conducted the rest of the transaction in silence, and Sherlock had stalked back to his rooms with his customary scowl in place. No one paid him any mind. _

_ He hadn’t meant to get so high, but that happened sometimes when you bought the best. _

_ It had been very late by the time he took to the streets, wandering from place to place, surprised to find doors locked, lights off. He didn’t know what he was looking for, really. Warmth, or food, maybe, though he was numb and not particularly hungry. Surely he wasn’t looking for companionship. He didn’t need company, never had. _

_ He slipped into a dark corner for another hit. Somewhere along the way, the rain had stopped. He still felt the cold, but he had the cure for that in his syringe. _

_ It could have been minutes later, or hours, but he finally found himself in the alley behind the library. The sky was just barely starting to lighten; sunrise was still some time away. He stopped and squinted, trying to bring the building into focus, absently resting a hand on his own throat to check his pulse. It was slower than he’d ever known it to be. Slowly, one thought trickled through the haze that muffled his brain: he could actually be about to die. _

_ He waited to feel something about that, but the feeling never came. After a minute, he shrugged. He’d best get inside, then. It wouldn’t do to be found in an alleyway.  _

_ He fumbled his way through opening the door and stumbled inside. Only two or three other people were there that early, employees setting up the tea shop for business, and he might have passed one or two as he staggered to his carrel, but he didn’t register them at all. Once he flopped into his chair, he reached into his pocket and drew out his syringe, but he fumbled and dropped it. It was too much effort to go after it, so he just laid his head down on the desk and breathed into the silence. _

_ He woke when a hand clasped his shoulder. “Come with me, Mr Holmes,” a gentle voice said. “I’ll get you some coffee. Your brother is on his way.” _

_ Sherlock’s head rolled on his neck, and he tried to focus, but he could only get a vague impression of sandy hair and a sad smile. “Don’t want to go,” he managed to mumble. _

_ “Yes, you do,” came the voice. “Up now, let’s move around a bit. Tea shop should be open soon.” _

_ The man pulled Sherlock to his feet and pulled one of his arms around his neck. “Oh, Holmes,” the man sighed, voice full of disappointment. “Why would you do this to yourself?”  _

_ Sherlock didn’t try to answer. He only squeezed the arm around the man’s neck a little more tightly. It felt almost like a hug. _

He shook his head and ducked around the building to the side entrance. His phone buzzed as he was taking off his coat.

_ Update, please. -MH  _

Sherlock frowned and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. 

He got his tea at the shop and walked over to check in with Lestrade at the conference room. There had been no progress. Sherlock found to his surprise that he felt a bit of sympathy for Lestrade’s frustration; the man wasn’t a complete idiot. He was getting pressure from all sides, and no one could even say for sure if the thing they were searching for still existed. Sherlock himself was running out of ideas, but he nodded when Lestrade asked him to keep him posted and headed back to his carrel.

There on the desk sat a file box, dark brown and slightly worn. 

Sherlock approached it slowly, but it looked to be an ordinary box. No wires, no ticking. He placed a cautious hand on the lid, and then slid it down one side. Normal temperature. No rain spots; that was interesting. On top was an envelope, neatly addressed to Sherlock in precise handwriting. He picked up and opened the envelope, studying the box the entire time. He suspected that he already knew what was inside.

The note was typewritten, printed on mass market copy paper from a poorly maintained, publicly used printer, likely one of the university computer labs.

_ Dearest-- _

_ Oh, you’ve gotten so close! I really thought you were going to find it on your own a couple of times. It’s been exciting, hasn’t it? Our own little scavenger hunt, in this ancient, dusty maze._

 _ Well, while it’s been fun to watch (and I do love to watch, you’re ever so lovely), I’ve thought it over and decided to help you out. Look at me, on the side of justice. You really bring out the best in me. _

_ So here you are, my darling. There’s a lot of evil in this box. I trust you to make the right decision. Don’t disappoint me.  _

_ I’ll be watching. _

_ XOXO-  
_ _ RB _

Sherlock sat back and stared up at the beautiful ceiling, a sight he knew as well at this point as the inside of his own eyelids. He was being played. He hated being manipulated, God how he hated it. Surely Brook knew that. Sherlock could hand the box over to the Yard types and be done, be a hero, in fact. He’d never want for cases, for distraction, again.

Oh, he was  _ definitely _ being played. He felt rage start to burble up within him, but shook his head and tried to focus.

He had to consider both sides. He had no doubt that this discovery would trigger a national, if not international, crisis. Mycroft wouldn’t care otherwise. So what should he do? He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself to  _ think. _ What was the right thing to do? What would  _ John _ do?

A quieter voice asked why he still cared what John would do.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then another, and then reached for his phone.

What will you do with it if I find it and give it to you?-SH

The answer came back within seconds.

_ Suppress it. And see that justice is done in a swift, merciless fashion. -MH_  
_ Reputations can be left untouched for the public good, but high prices still paid. -MH  
_

Sherlock shook his head, frustrated.

Just more of your political games. These were children, Mycroft. Their bodies, their lives. -SH  
_ Sometimes politicians must act for the greater good without consideration for the individual. You know this. -MH  
_ _ You know what this information set loose could do. There would be consequences for decades. -MH _

Sherlock sighed yet again.

How can I trust you? -SH

There was a long pause before the three dots of reply started dancing.

_ I don’t know, Sherlock. All I can say is, think of how many times I could have hurt you, and didn’t. -MH _

Sherlock blinked and thought unwillingly again of the cold, wet alley just behind him, remembering now the quiet music that had come later, the shuffled pages of a book being read nearby, and soft, clean bedding. There had been fighting later, oh yes, but in that moment, he had known he was safe.

_ Have a little faith in me, brother. -MH _

Mycroft hadn’t said a word to their parents that morning. Not on that occasion, nor on several others.

All right, then.

We should have tea. -SH  
_ Sorry? -MH_  
Harriet’s tea shop, this afternoon. 4pm -SH  
_ I have a meeting. I couldn’t possibly be there before 6. -MH  
_ Cancel it. It will be worth your time. -SH

There was a long pause.

_ I see. -MH_  
_ I could rearrange a few things, I suppose. -MH  
_ _ 5pm. The Old Spring. -MH _

Sherlock grinned down at the phone. Mycroft never let Sherlock pick the place. Never. 

A pub? Really, Mycroft? -SH  
_ Indulge me. I so rarely make it to Cambridge. -MH_  
Very well. But you’re buying. -SH  
_ Of course. If you get there first, order me a glass of the Le Notaire Columbard and I will be along shortly. -MH_  
You’re rather a posh git, you know. -SH  
_ As you say. -MH  
_ _ Thank you, Sherlock. -MH _

Sherlock hesitated for a moment.

I’m counting on you to do what’s right. -SH  
_ I know. I won’t let you down. -MH _

\---

Sherlock took one last look in the mirror. He was overdue for a haircut. It wasn’t going to happen today, though, his first day back in the pub in over a week. He’d only passed through briefly on his way upstairs last night, but it was obvious that the staff had taken a bit of a break in his absence. He was getting an early start, before everyone else showed up. There was a lot of work to be done.

He’d parted from Lestrade with a handshake and murmured regrets, claiming the pub as an excuse. Lestrade had nodded with understanding and not a little resignation. The search would continue for at least a couple more weeks, though Lestrade would do his best to get back to London sooner. The officers would decide the file had been destroyed, or stolen, or never existed, and the case would be set to the side and forgotten. It was for the best, but Sherlock felt a little bad about leaving Lestrade behind. He gave him the names of his favourite chippie and a very good place for cheap Chinese food.

He checked for his keys and opened his front door. He almost stepped on the flat, festively wrapped package that waited on the mat.

The mat in front of his own front door. The door to his own flat. Which stood above his own pub. Which Sherlock himself had locked up tight. 

He stepped back slowly and considered the gift. He crouched and looked for footprints, scuffs, dust, any kind of clue, but there was nothing. After a moment, he carefully picked up the gift. There was a note under the bow, in the same careful handwriting from the envelope in the library, on the same bland paper.

_ Angel, _

_ I can’t seem to get you into trouble, can I? What will it take, I wonder?  _

_ Maybe the enclosed will give you some ideas. Hope you enjoy!  _

_ XOXO-  
_ _ RB _

Sherlock pulled off the shiny paper. It was only a book, but as he turned it over and read the title, his breath caught.  _ Les 120 Journées de Sodome ou l'école du libertinage, _ by Donatien Alphonse Francois, Marquis de Sade. One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom. Christ.

Sherlock had read this book while still in uni, before the drugs had really started, when he was studying the psychology of criminals in his free time. It was a dark, almost hopeless story of sadism and perversion. Even as a work of fiction, it had given him valuable insight into the evil that could be wrought when a group of likeminded individuals was able to explore their darkest impulses without consequence. It had also given him nightmares. He’d thought he was unshockable, but this book--this book was  _ shocking. _ Sherlock shivered, despite himself. This was a disturbing, even terrifying gift from someone who claimed to be an admirer.

God, he was so lucky he’d turned Richard Brook down that night.

Sherlock opened the cover. It was in the original French, a first edition. Probably priceless, but Brook hadn’t paid for it; a bookplate told him it had been stolen from the rare books room at the Cambridge University Library. He turned to a page that had been marked with a slip of paper, and somehow wasn’t surprised to find the bookmark was a receipt from The Old Spring Pub. Brook had ordered a shot of tequila, and paid in cash.

Sherlock stepped back into the flat and closed the door. He had some calls to make, including one to Mycroft. It was time to call in that favour.

After a moment’s consideration, he turned the deadbolt as well. 

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, effusive, sloppy thanks as ever to Kedgeree, 221bJen, and EnduringChill for the beta. These ladies are marvelous.
> 
> Also, thanks to 72GowerStreet for showing me around Cambridge while I was there. I used stuff from our day there, especially Harriet's tea shop, which is fantastic. I should mention, I have NOT been into the Cambridge UL, so that material is all imagined. They do actually have a tea shop there, I know that.
> 
> I took a bit of a break from this to write some birthday fics for friends, but also because I hit a snag--
> 
> As I've mentioned before, this fic is an experiment. I was participating in a monthly challenge, and the idea was to tell a long form story with a cohesive narrative while allowing the prompts to dictate how to tell the story. It's been great. I can't say I would have written Sherlock losing his virginity in a library without the prompts, for example, and that scene of Moriarty and Sherlock doing shots of tequila on a stormy night came directly out of the weather prompt. However, the person behind the challenge decided to put it 'on hiatus' without warning after this prompt, so I found myself kind of stuck.
> 
> I talked to some of my buddies in the NorCal Sherlockian group about how to proceed, and they had some excellent suggestions. I'm going to solicit ideas from that group as I go along. I think they need to be blind prompts, from people who aren't reading it (I know, it's hard to imagine). I have no idea if this will work, but I will finish this story if it kills me, goddammit.
> 
> Again, many thanks to all of you who are reading this. I promise I know where the story is going; I still promise that happy ending. Oh, my god, it's going to be so happy. 
> 
> Speaking of happy, happy new year, friends. All the best.


	9. Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How’s your brother?” Mrs Hudson asked.
> 
> “Oh, you know. Steady as a rock, and almost as charming.”
> 
> “Oh, stop. You’d each be lost without each other, and you know it.”
> 
> Sherlock smirked. “Do I?”
> 
> “Of course. You bring out the worst in each other, which leaves the best for the rest of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this month: Misplacing or losing something important.

“Now that, Mrs Hudson, is a _hat."_ Sherlock slipped out from behind the bar, smiling broadly at Mrs Hudson as she entered the pub with a bit more than her usual flare. She was gaily dressed in a flattering purple suit with shoes to match and a cream-coloured straw hat, wide brimmed and asymmetrical, with a tall, stiff, elaborate bow.

Mrs Hudson offered up her cheek. “Don’t muss me, love,” she said with a smile. “Margaret is off tending to her niece, but she’s meeting me here in a few minutes, and then it’s straight to the wedding.”

Sherlock kissed her upturned face and pressed her hand. “You’ve time for a drink, though, haven’t you? You always told me, among the civilised, there is always time for a drink.”

Mrs Hudson lifted her chin and sniffed. “Well, as I am quite civilised and also never wrong, I’ll have a bloody mary with your best vodka, please, sir.” She took a seat at the low table nearest the window and raised one finger of warning. “And don’t forget the Tabasco, mind,  I’m not dead yet.” She winked at him, and then cast a quick, sharp look around the pub. Sherlock grinned to himself to see the things that caught her attention. She never missed a trick, did Mrs Hudson.

Her gaze came back around to Sherlock as he approached her with a tray, and presented the drink with a flourish. “Tell me what you think,” he said, as he slid into the chair across from her, his own cup of coffee in hand.

She took a sip and nodded approvingly. “You’re finally chilling the vodka.”

He nodded. “Two bottles in the lower refrigerator at all times.”

“Not sure how I feel about the garlic salt,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“That was a risk, I’ll grant you.”

She took another sip. “What is that, Bristol Cream sherry?”

“John Harvey’s best.” He grinned. “Rinsed the glass with it.”

“Mmm.” She took another sip. “It’s nice. Subtle.” She paused. “You could add a bit more.”

“Ah, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock chuckled. “How I miss you and your discriminating palate. You’re my most demanding customer.”

She winked at him. “And most rewarding, too, no doubt.”

“But of course. You needn’t ever ask that.” He waved his hand to indicate the pub. “So, I’m listening. Go ahead.”

She nodded. “You’ve changed some things.”

“Nothing major.”

“I like the new menu board. It’s easier to read.” She paused and pursed her lips. “Looks like--new locks on the door?”

“Yes.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing important.” Sherlock shrugged and looked away. He knew he’d never get away with an outright denial, but she’d probably let him have his privacy if he showed a bit of reluctance. Mrs Hudson didn’t need to know about Richard Brook and his twisted proclivities.

Still, she watched him closely for a long moment. “I see,” she said finally, her brow creased with worry. “Well, probably a good idea to bump up the security from time to time, in any case.”

“Exactly.” He smiled, relieved. “Do you want to take a key?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I always text you when I’m coming by, anyway.” She smiled, all innocence, and Sherlock braced for impact. “I wonder, though. Does John still have _his_ key?” she asked casually, her eyes never leaving his.

He couldn’t help but wince. “I--don’t know. Maybe. He did leave with one.” It was true. Sherlock had thought of it at the time, but hadn’t had the heart to ask for it. He sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it, now? He’s not likely to be dropping by next time he’s in the neighbourhood.”

“Now, you listen to me--” Mrs Hudson started, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Not now, Mrs H. Please. Drink your bloody mary and give me some good news. Are you looking forward to the wedding?”

She sighed deeply and lifted her drink. “Well, you know me. I always love a party. And they do seem a lovely couple.”

“Well, then.” He leaned across the table to clink his coffee cup to her glass. “To the bride and groom.”

“To the bride and groom.” She took another drink. “Perfect weather for it.”

“Hmm. Quite clear. Should be warm later. You’ll be glad to have your hat.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I would have worn it in a hurricane, but yes. Functional as well as fashionable. That’s my brand.” She smiled at him again. “Now. How’s your brother?”

“Oh, you know. Steady as a rock, and almost as charming.”

“Oh, stop. You’d each be lost without each other, and you know it.”

Sherlock smirked. “Do I?”

“Of course. You bring out the worst in each other, which leaves the best for the rest of us.” Mrs Hudson’s looked back out the window, and brightened. “Oh, there’s Margaret. Doesn’t she look lovely in blue?” She took one last healthy sip of her drink and rose. “I’m off, then, love.”

Sherlock rose and kissed her hand. “Mind your hip, now. Don’t overdo the dancing.”

“There is no such thing as too much dancing, dear one. For one thing, dancing minimizes hangovers, it’s a well-known fact. I will dance, and eat, and drink, and take full advantage of every possible moment,” she said with a grin. “I must maximize my investment in this hat.”

Sherlock laughed. “It is truly a wonder. Fit for a royal wedding.” He walked to the door and pulled it open, giving Margaret a quick wave. “Will I see you again?”

“Not this trip. We’re heading back early tomorrow.” She paused and faced him. “You should come see me soon, though.”

He pursed his lips. “You know, I should. I haven’t been to Edinburgh in ages.”

“Well, there’s no excuse for that, young man. It’s a quick train ride. Find a weekend, come on over, and we’ll go whisky tasting.” She reached up and brushed her lips across his cheek. “Be good, love.”

Mrs Hudson slipped out, one hand holding her hat steady against the breeze, and the door swung shut behind her. Sherlock watched through the window as the car pulled away, and thought about what she’d said about Mycroft. She was dead on, as usual--they really did bring out the worst in each other. They always had, really.

He’d never called Mycroft after finding the book at the door. He’d started to that morning, but then something had stayed his hand. He’d picked up the phone to do it any number of times since then, and there wasn’t any particular reason he didn’t, except the dread of that strange mixture of indifference and pity that drove Sherlock barking mad. Mycroft would have nagged him, Christ how Mycroft loved to nag, eager to cosset him, protect him, save him from--what? Another book?

So slowly, a little uncertain at first but then with increasing confidence, Sherlock had handled everything himself. He called the alarm company for more patrols, changed the locks, installed a brighter light over the door. After dusting for prints (and of course there were none), he’d mailed the book back to the library in an unmarked envelope. He’d posted a list of emergency phone numbers behind the bar and programmed Scotland Yard as a favourite in his mobile. And now everything was fine. It stayed quiet late at night. There were no strange visitors, no unwelcome gifts.

No confidential files that Mycroft desperately wanted, left for Sherlock to deliver, like a gift.

And maybe that was at the heart of it. In Cambridge, for once, Sherlock hadn’t been the stupid younger brother, off getting himself in trouble, distracting Mycroft from his ever so important work. For once, Mycroft had needed something, and for once, Sherlock had gone out there and gotten it for him. When Sherlock had handed over the file, there’d been something else, something new--Mycroft had been grateful. He’d been _impressed._

Sherlock had rather enjoyed that.

So when the book turned up, despite his initial impulse, Sherlock resisted the urge to go running to Mycroft for help. He just wanted to revel in this mysterious feeling of equality. He’d be nervous for a while, that was natural, but everything would be all right in the end.

He shook his head to clear it. Time to get to work. With the beautiful weather, people were sure to be out and about. They’d be busy today; he’d better lay in some more ice.

\---

“Asters, right?”

It was a bright, sunny morning, and the street was full of people, but Sherlock still jumped at the unexpected voice coming from behind him. He straightened from where he was trimming the flowers in the window boxes and whirled around, tightening his hold on the pruning shears.

He blinked to see a lovely woman, young and slightly rumpled, standing on the pavement. Her face was open and smiling. His quick glance took in her long brown hair in a messy braid, her short and excessively clean nails, and her closed-toed shoes, pale around the edges as if they’d been dipped in bleach. He caught a whiff of formalin on the breeze and eased his grip.

“Ah. You must be Lestrade’s Molly,” he said, nodding his head in greeting. “Dr Hooper, I mean. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, still frowning a little at the trimmers still held tightly in his hand. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Sherlock forced a smile. “Not at all. You only startled me a bit. I was--concentrating.” He looked her over again, more closely this time. “Tell me, did you manage to get your cat out of the cupboard before you caught the tube?”

Molly blinked in surprise. “But—that’s amazing? How did you…”

“You have to know I’m not going to tell you,” Sherlock said, with an enigmatic smile.

She laughed. “Greg told me about this, you know. How you read people. You helped him with that science serial killer case.”

He relaxed a bit, and his smile became more genuine. “Among other cases, it’s true. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He motioned back to the flowers. “To answer your question, yes, they’re asters. It’s rather the theme, you see,” he said, and pointed up toward the pub sign.

She nodded. “They’re lovely,” she said, walking over and brushing a finger along the edge of one of the boxes. “But why asters?”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked away. “Well. Just sounded traditional, I suppose. And they do make for a nice sign. Very graphically pleasing.”

“I see,” Molly said. “Well, as I said, they’re lovely.”

“Thank you,” he said, setting down the trimmers and brushing his hands together. “Was there something I could help you with? The pub isn’t officially open yet, but I do have coffee on.”

Molly shook her head. “No. Well, no to the coffee, but yes, there is something you could help me with. Have you seen Greg this morning? He’s not answering my texts, and I just worry when I don’t know where he is.”

“No, but we did text briefly an hour or so ago. He’s working on that case, the one with the paint and the boots. He was going to the basement to review some files.” Sherlock sniffed. “They don’t get mobile reception down there.”

“Oh. That makes sense, I guess.”

“No, no, it really doesn’t, seeing as how it’s the headquarters of the police force for a major international city, and you’d think they’d be able to handle such things as mobiles and texts and walls, but there you have it.”

“Well, I feel better knowing where he is, anyway. Why’d he text you?”

“He had a question about mud by the river.”

She tilted her head. “You know about the mud by the river?”

“A bit,” Sherlock said. He gave her a shrug. “I do walk a lot.”

“Hmm.” She nodded. “Well, if you do talk to him, tell him to get back to me, all right? I have to head into work now, but I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible. I’ve asked him to brunch to meet my mother.”

“I see. That sounds rather serious.”

“It is.” Molly frowned and bit her lip. “You know him. Is it too soon, do you reckon?”

“Honestly?” Sherlock smiled. “Not at all. He’s quite smitten, I think.”

Molly blushed. “Good. Wait, I don’t mean good, I just mean—“

“I’ll let him know you came by,” he cut in smoothly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should get this done. We’ll be opening soon.” He picked up his clippers and bent back to the window boxes.

She watched him trim the plants for a few seconds. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“When I was a girl, my grandmother taught me about Victorian flower meanings. It was her hobby, you know. Well, one of them.”

Sherlock paused, but didn’t look up. He felt his heart begin to pound. “And?”

“Well, asters are special. People say they’re about patience, and that’s true, but it’s not just that.” She bent and picked up a clipped flower from the pavement.

“I didn’t realise,” Sherlock said cautiously. “That’s very--”

“Sherlock,” Molly said again. “Greg said you renamed the pub when that lady gave it to you.”

“Mrs Hudson. Yes. It was a…condition of the gift.”

“And you chose asters.” She hesitated. “Do you know their meaning?”

“I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

“Well, yes. They signify afterthought. The wish that things had gone differently.” She smiled gently. “Regret. Asters mean patience, and regret.”

He closed his eyes and drew in another deep breath. “It’s just a name, Molly,” he said, and went back to the flowers.

Molly watched him work for a minute longer.

“Well, tell me this. Why a skull, then?” she finally asked.

“Ah. Yes.” He shook himself and quirked a half-smile as he dug one long finger into the soil. “I could tell you it’s about valuing intelligence, or _memento mori,_ or something along those lines, but really it’s just that I think skulls are, as the younger set would have it, cool.”

She burst out in bright laughter. “They are, aren’t they?” She smiled down at him fondly. “Creepy, but fascinating.”

He nodded. “Exactly. The perfect aesthetic, if you will.”

“Indeed.” Molly bit her lip. “Um, this may sound weird, but--would you like to visit the morgue some time?”

Sherlock looked up at her and smiled. She was too perceptive for his comfort, but seemed rather kind. Maybe they’d be friends one day.

\---

One week later, Sherlock was deep cleaning the bar (the part-time bartender got lemon juice everywhere every time she worked, disgusting, really) when his phone chimed with a text. He rinsed off his hands with a sense of anticipation. He had a feeling he knew who it was.

Are you there? -MH

Yes. Hello. -SH

Ah, good. Are you well? It’s been a while. -MH

Yes, sorry. Fine here. How are you? -SH

Well, thank you. -MH

It occurred to me that it had been a while since I’d checked in with John Watson, since you haven’t been asking. He’s doing quite well, you’ll be happy to know. It’s been quiet over there. -MH

Trust Mycroft to start out with the knife. It was fine, though. At least it was good news.

I’m glad to hear it. Did you need anything else? -SH

Yes, actually, a couple of things. First, I’m sending you a file. We pulled all the footage from the library cameras, and there were a few people we couldn’t identify. Take a look and see if you recognise anyone, if you will. It’s a long shot, admittedly, but it’s all we have right now. -MH

Sherlock pressed the home button and checked his mailbox. An email with a large attachment came through while he watched.

It just arrived. I’ll look tonight.  Was there something else? -SH

Yes, the second thing, and by far the more important for your continued peaceful well-being. It’s Mummy’s birthday. Don’t forget to call her. -MH

 _That_ was what Sherlock had been expecting. He grinned widely.

Well, I talked to her this morning, actually. We had quite a long chat. -SH

Really. -MH

Oh yes. I’ve been caught up on all the village gossip.  -SH

Shocking, what the chemist’s son has been up to. We both called that one, what, five years ago? -SH

Yes. -MH

Word of advice: when you call, don’t ask about the neighbour’s goat and the roses. It’s a sore spot. -SH

There was a long pause. Sherlock grinned with glee: Mycroft was _speechless._

You’re sure you’re all right. -MH

Quite. Why? -SH

No reason, I suppose. I’ll let you get back to work. -MH

Let me know about the pictures. -MH

Sherlock smiled, satisfied, as he put down his phone and went back to scrubbing the bar. Mycroft would be stewing over that discussion for some time. He was still smiling when the mail carrier (their usual man, drank milk from the carton, one small dog, played the horses on the weekend) pushed the door open. Sherlock watched him drop the mail on the bar and thanked him with a nod. The carrier didn’t respond, just moved quickly back to the door and out, which was unusual. He’d always been friendly with them, though of course he preferred Mrs Hudson. Sherlock remembered them giggling over a bit of gossip and frosty glasses of lemonade.

Sherlock sorted through the stack of mail with a distracted air. Bills, a couple of adverts, and…

A postcard.

Sherlock’s heart stuttered. _John,_ he thought for a hopeful moment, as he pulled the card from the stack, but he was disappointed to find only a picture of New Scotland Yard. He sighed and stopped for a moment to consider the photo. The building was nice enough, he supposed, newly refurbished and neatly set into the row of structures that lined the Victoria Embankment, but still, the picture represented an unusual choice for a souvenir.

He frowned and flipped the card over to read the message. It was written in block print, with thick black marker:

I DO HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE BOOK.

SO LOOKING FORWARD TO OUR NEXT MEETING—

XO RB

Sherlock stared down at the card for a long moment before remembering to breathe.

\---

Of course it rained that night, and rather hard at that. Once he’d checked all the locks, Sherlock sat at a table by the window, a cup of tea in hand, and watched the raindrops hit his flowers. The leaves quivered, and a few of the petals fell, but he knew that after a bit of sun and just a little care, they’d look good as new.

Asters. Patience. Regret. Of course he’d known.

The fat drops of water fell from the underside of the leaves and left small impressions in the soil. The water was coming harder now and the wind picked up, just a little, making the metal feet of the chairs shiver on the pavement. The flowers shimmied but stood tall, winding together for support, faces turned to the sky as they waited for the clouds to break.

He looked down at his phone. The file Mycroft had sent was open on the screen, and one photo was highlighted.

Sherlock enlarged the image. The handsome, compact, dark-haired figure on the stairs of the library was definitely the man he knew as Richard Brook. He was looking directly into the camera, dark eyes glittering and bold grin in place. His confidence was apparent, even in a grainy digital photo. Sherlock shivered involuntarily.

Here, in the dark, he could admit it: he was afraid. This man was toying with him, and for no reason he could divine. He’d identified him to Mycroft, but Mycroft had been as mystified as he was, unable to offer anything in the way of a name, or a location, or a motive.

Sherlock drew a deep breath and allowed himself to think of John, thirty-five hundred miles away. He missed him, god how he missed him, even if he was no longer Sherlock’s to miss.

Could he have said something, _anything,_ that would have stopped John from leaving? Would John have been beside him that night when Richard Brook walked in and electricity crackled through the air? Might he be here now, drinking tea and watching it rain, reaching across the table to put a warm hand on Sherlock’s cold, slightly trembling one?

Would he be here now, showing Sherlock what bravery really looked like?

Sherlock sighed and pressed his forehead against the glass. The wind was picking up. The forecast had said it would rain all night, and most of tomorrow.

\---

Another three days passed before he noticed. It probably would have been even longer, but he’d been awakened by a nightmare (brown eyes, this time, and ghosts in a library), and had come down to check the locks and grab a quick sip of brandy. The tiny red light was more noticeable in the near darkness.

Cameras, Mycroft? Really? -SH

They’re for your own security. -MH

Why? -SH

You’ve been acting strangely. Distant. I just wanted to know you’re all right. -MH

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

I’m not back on the drugs, Mycroft. -SH

Would you tell me if you were? -MH

Sherlock sniffed and ignored the question.

They’re very obvious. -SH

To you, perhaps. -MH

I’m assuming there are listening devices as well. -SH

Again, Sherlock, for your own good. -MH

Sherlock slowly opened the drawer behind the bar and deliberately pulled out a screwdriver.

If you take them out, I will replace them, and I will actually try to hide them from you next time. It would be a massive waste of time and effort, on both sides. Let’s just skip that part, shall we? -MH

Sherlock glared at the nearest camera.

You should have at least asked me first. -SH

You would have said no, and I would have insisted, and we would have argued, and you would have invoked Mummy, and I would have done the same, and you would have stormed out, and I would have come in and done precisely what I just did. Look at all the unpleasant dialogue I spared us both. -MH

Sherlock rolled his eyes, while admitting to himself that Mycroft did have a point.

The flat? -SH

Hallway and sitting room. -MH

Sherlock sighed. Truth be told, it was rather a relief having someone keep an eye on him, within reason. He wasn’t sure what Brook represented, whether he was friend, suitor, or enemy, but he did know he’d prefer to see him coming.

Stay out of my bedroom. -SH

Lesson learned there long ago, little brother. –MH

Sherlock swallowed his grin and flipped the camera an obscene gesture. It wouldn’t do to have Mycroft thinking he had won. Not this time, at least.

\---

Two days later, another postcard arrived.

It was a picture of Edinburgh this time, grey puffy clouds over cobblestone streets, with the castle in the distance. Sometimes Mrs Hudson would send new recipes to him through the mail, and they were always worth reading. Smiling, he turned the card over.

His smile quickly faded.

IT’S BEEN AGES SINCE I CAME TO EDINBURGH. WHAT A PITY. THE CITY IS BEAUTIFUL, AND OH, THE GREEN OF IT ALL. AND THE GARDENS! FLOWERS EVERYWHERE. AND THE PEOPLE ARE SO ACCOMMODATING. IT’S LOVELY.

MAYBE WE SHOULD COME TOGETHER SOME TIME.

XO RB

Sherlock felt heat flash across his cheeks and then through his body. His abdomen tightened, and a light sweat broke out on his brow.

He had to keep calm, keep his head clear. He thought of texting Mycroft, but then he pushed the idea away. What help could he ask for, anyway? A man who apparently didn’t exist was sending cheeky postcards through the Royal Mail. Mycroft would roll his eyes so hard, he’d be able to see a mile behind him; Sherlock was certain he would never hear the end of it.

And then he remembered. There _was_ someone else he could turn to, someone with resources, someone who blessedly owed him a favour. If he didn’t see him tomorrow, he’d call first thing Monday.

\---

Sherlock delivered the two glasses to the table—mimosas today, a nod to Sunday—and then hesitated, biting his lip.

“Lestrade, I—“ he said haltingly. “I need to ask your assistance, I’m afraid. If you don’t mind, that is. I need you to look at something, in your professional capacity. A picture. It’s not urgent, but perhaps you could give me a moment before you leave?” He gave Molly a sheepish grin. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Lestrade looked up at him with interest. “Is it a case?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Of sorts. It’s complicated. I just need you to tell me if you recognise someone.”

Greg nodded and wiped his mouth with his serviette. “That’s easy enough. I can take a look now, if you like. Molly?”

Molly lifted her glass and winked. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and he nodded gratefully, absently noting her new manicure. The meeting with the mother had gone well, then. Someone had hopes of a ring.

Greg smiled at her, rose, and followed Sherlock to the bar. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and came around to stand next to him, keeping their backs to the crowd.

“I’m not supposed to show this to anyone, but--this man,” Sherlock said, showing him the photo. “Does he seem familiar to you?”

“Hmm,” Lestrade said, frowning. “No, no, I don’t think so.” He looked up at Sherlock. “Should he?”

Sherlock sighed, disappointed. “No, I suppose not. I just thought you might have come across him sometime.”

Lestrade pursed his lips and studied the photo. “Is he police? Or a suspect?”

“Well, he’s definitely not police. Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“Yeah, it must be.” Lestrade tapped the screen. “This was taken at that library in Cambridge, wasn’t it? I recognise the pillars behind him.”

Sherlock scowled. “That’s annoyingly observant of you, Detective Inspector.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my job, isn’t it? And I went in and out those doors a fair few times.” Lestrade leaned back and crossed his arms, looking stern. “I knew you were keeping something back about what happened there. Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t, Lestrade.” Sherlock said with regret. “It’s literally a matter of national security. I know that sounds like an excuse, but believe me, I could get in trouble even for showing you this.”

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment. “More trouble than Scotland Yard?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Come on, Lestrade. You did a background check, and you’re not an idiot. I know you noticed my brother.”

Lestrade blinked slowly. “Your brother is a minor official in the British government with a ridiculously high security clearance.”

“Exactly.”

Lestrade frowned.

From immediately behind them, a small gasp made them both startle. They turned to find Molly staring at the photo, wide-eyed, one hand covering her mouth in shock.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have looked, I guess, but…” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I was just headed to the loo, but you both looked so serious, and Greg looked all—stern, you know, so I just took a peek and…wow.” She looked between them in confusion. “He’s been caught, then? What’s he done?”

The two men exchanged a look.

“Nothing, really,” Sherlock said slowly. “Are you all right? You seem rather taken aback.”

“Oh.” She looked back down at the picture. “I just—I knew him in uni, even went out with him once, before he started—you know. Causing trouble. Sneaking around. I hear he’s rich now, but no one I know still talks to him, except maybe Kate, because she—“

“Molly,” Sherlock interrupted. “I need you to sit down and tell me everything you know about this man, starting with his name.”

\---

Have you ever heard of James Moriarty? -SH

The response was swift, even by Mycroft’s standards.

How do you know that name? -MH

That’s the name of the man in the picture. I located a reliable source.  Someone who knew him in uni. –SH

I recommend you to alumni databases for your future investigations. –SH

I see. Noted. –MH

Does the name mean anything to you? Google gave me gibberish, though I suspect at least some of it was code. –SH

The name is well known in certain circles. –MH

Moriarty has been linked to several major crimes, and possibly some international political intrigues. Nothing ever sticks, though, and to my knowledge, he’s never been photographed. –MH

There’s an entire team that works on tracking him. -MH

Well. This just became rather interesting. –MH

Sherlock grinned. He’d just brought Mycroft another gift, apparently.

Bringing Moriarty into this rather ups the stakes, little brother. -MH

I probably know the answer, but please think before you answer: would you be willing to stay at my house for a while? –MH

It would put my mind at ease to have you close at hand. -MH

You think I would be safer there than here? -SH

Yes. I have excellent security, for one thing, and my livelihood isn’t dependent on the ground floor of my dwelling being open to the public. -MH

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. He had to concede that point, but--

No. -SH

He could hear almost hear the sigh from Whitehall.

I do wish you would. -MH

Locking me away in that fortress you call a house would serve no purpose. I’ll go insane, and I’ll take you with me. Besides, we’re that much closer to finding him now. I can’t help from a panic room. -SH

It would keep you safe, Sherlock. Just for a little while. -MH

I already told you, Mycroft. No, thank you. -SH

Just think about it, won’t you? -MH

Sherlock sighed.

Fine. I will. -SH

Thank you. I’ll get my people working on this. In the meantime, keep your phone close, please. You’ve proven rather helpful. I may need you for something. –MH

Sherlock stopped himself from smiling up at the cameras. He knew what passed for sentiment between them when he heard it.

I will. –SH

\---

Four days later, another card: this time, a desert scene. Sherlock’s heart nearly stopped when he first saw the picture: sand dunes, glowing, and a large, close, perfect moon. Afghanistan. _John._ He held his breath as he turned the card over.

IN AFGHANISTAN TO DO A LITTLE DUE DILIGENCE. RECON, IF YOU WILL. I CAN’T BELIEVE I’VE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORE. SO LOVELY, AND SO DANGEROUS.

IT REMINDS ME OF YOU.

WILL BE BACK IN LONDON SOON. WE SHOULD TALK. I’LL BE IN TOUCH.

XO RB

Sherlock gasped as the pieces--finally, stupid, _stupid--_ fell into place.

Afghanistan. Brook—no, Moriarty was in Afghanistan. Or had been, quite recently.

And had been in Edinburgh, appreciating gardens. (“There’s a ginger cat that comes to sit in the garden every morning,” Mrs Hudson said, quiet joy in her voice, “and we take tea and watch the birds together.”)

And had been to the souvenir kiosks near Scotland Yard. (“Maybe I could bring you some other cases to look over some time,” Lestrade said with admiration, eager in the face of the hunt.)

And now, Afghanistan. (“I’ve joined the army,” John said, nervous and earnest and oh, so very brave.)

Sherlock felt his knees start to give, and just barely managed to stagger over to a chair. He looked unseeingly out the window. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he clutched at the table.

Mycroft had been wrong. This wasn’t ‘interesting’ at all; it was terrifying. And apparently, it was very, very personal. His friends, people he cared for were under threat, and he had no idea why.

Sherlock buried his face in his hands. He had to protect them.

He should have told Mycroft about the postcards. He’d been stubborn and proud, and to no good purpose. Telling Mycroft now, though, would just put him alongside the others in the line of fire. No, Sherlock would have to deal with this on his own, with his own limited resources. He didn’t really have a choice.

Sherlock looked back down at the card. Brook’s--no, Moriarty’s--tone had changed; he was brisker, more abrupt. There was a definite promise in that ‘I’ll be in touch;’ this phase of the game was nearly over. Sherlock was sure he’d be hearing from him soon. There would soon be a demand; Sherlock only hoped that when the time came, he would be up to the task.

It was three hours and two ample pours of scotch before it occurred to Sherlock to wonder how Moriarty could possibly know about John.

\---

It was another several days before he heard anything, long days of no sleep and twitching at shadows. It occurred to him at one point that if this was meant to be psychological warfare, it was really quite effective.

Finally, late one afternoon, as he sat on the sofa in his flat staring into the distance, two texts.

_Hey, I’m back in town!_

_Did you miss me?_

Sherlock stared at his phone in silence for a full two minutes.

_Manners, Sherlock. It’s rude to ignore your friends._

It took Sherlock another minute to build up the courage to reply.

Hello. -SH

_That’s better. You won’t believe this, I was going through all the work that piled up while I was gone, and I realised, I know your brother! Well, know of him, I mean. It’s such a small world, isn’t it?_

Mycroft. He hadn’t spared him, then, after all his worry. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a moment before answering.

Feels rather too small at the moment, yes. -SH

_Have you put it together, then?_

Yes. Leave them alone. -SH

_I will, as long as you behave._

What do you want? -SH

_You._

Sherlock had never understood the cliche, but now he understood. One’s blood could, in fact, run cold.

_We’ve been dancing around each other for months, you know._

_Those cases, the clever ones? Those were me._

_You didn’t even know, did you? You didn’t know anyone was behind them._

_Didn’t you wonder? Didn’t you ever talk to those criminals, the ones with uncommon crimes who seemed so common, so ordinary, and wonder, did someone put you up to this?_

Sherlock remembered. He had thought exactly that, hadn’t he? He’d been surprised at the ingenuity displayed by some people who seemed to be average, if not idiots. He’d sat and wondered why he felt he was missing something, if there was some larger puzzle he should have been putting together. One the one hand, he felt a twinge of pride that his instincts were had been correct. On the other hand--

_I should have killed you, you know._

He should have known he was playing with very dangerous fire.

_It’s what my partners wanted. You were getting in the way. You solving your little cases cost us serious money, Sherlock. We had a good thing going, then boom! Along comes the bartender. The BARTENDER, Sherlock. Really, how were we supposed to plan for that?_

You can’t possibly expect me to apologise. -SH

_No, you cheeky darling. Not now that I know you. You weren’t what I expected. Not at all._

_And now, here we are._

There was a long pause. Sherlock knew it was probably for dramatic effect; he also knew it was working.

_Come to me._

And there it was.

I don’t want to. -SH

_Ouch, my feelings!_

_You know what? I’m not really asking. I want you by my side, working for me, and doing whatever I want you to. Do I need to spell the threat out to you?_

Why are you doing this? -SH

_I’m sorry, have you looked in a mirror lately?_

Sherlock’s breath hitched.

_Would you like to know what Lestrade is doing right now?_

Sherlock’s hands started to shake, but he managed to type a short message.

No, I’d rather not. -SH

He winced when the three bubbles of a message being composed began to dance on the screen.

_I don’t blame you. It’s rather obscene, I’m afraid. For a mousy girl, that Molly sure knows her way around a pair of handcuffs. Had I known of her many talents, I would have kept in touch after uni._

Your point has been made. -SH

_Or Mrs Hudson? She’s relaxing as usual with her evening glass of port, but tonight she’s sitting on the sofa instead of her customary armchair. Crazy old lady, shaking things up over there in the quiet streets of Edinburgh. Still, it’s so nice to see old people so much in love._

_That could be us, you know._

I know you heard me. Stop it. -SH

_Oh, I almost forgot. I saw John Watson last week. Do you remember him? Kind of average looking bloke, but I guess he’s fit enough if you’re into that military thing. I didn’t get to talk to him, though, I only saw him through a rifle scope. He looks good in the crosshairs._

ENOUGH. -SH

Please. -SH

_You can stop this at any time._

_I’m waiting._

Sherlock took a deep breath.

Where and when? -SH

_One hour. I’ll send a car._

One hour.

Sherlock slowly looked up at the camera in the bookcase, careful to keep his face blank. He thought of Mycroft watching this in a few days, once Sherlock’s actions became known. His heart ached a little; despite all the friction between them, he knew Mycroft did have his best interests at heart. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander.

_“Sherlock? Is that you?” Mycroft’s whisper carried through the silence._

_Sherlock swallowed. “I—yes.” He took a tentative step into Mycroft’s room. “Um—the storm woke me up, and I guess the lights are out.”_

_A pocket torch flared, and a circle of light briefly burned into Sherlock’s vision. Of course Mycroft would keep a torch by his bed. The glow it cast into the room was feeble, but better than nothing. “You came downstairs by yourself in the dark?” Mycroft asked._

_“Um, yes,” Sherlock said, unable to mask a small quiver in his voice. He cleared his throat and pulled his shoulders back, tucking his stuffed bear behind him. “I’m just checking on everyone. And the house. Making sure everything is OK. You know.”_

_“I see. That’s good of you.” Mycroft quickly looked him over. “And how is everything so far?”_

_Sherlock shrugged. “Seems fine,” he said, as diffidently as he could manage._

_Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, and Sherlock looked back with his best imitation of unconcern. He wished he could stop shivering. The rain was fairly pelting the windows._

_“You know, it’s going to get cold, without the heat,” Mycroft finally said, thoughtfully. “It could be a while until the power is back on. This room is warmer than yours. If you like, you could stay in here.”_

_Sherlock blinked. “Why’s your room warmer?” he said, taking another step, curious despite himself. “You told me heat rises, and my room is upstairs.”_

_“Ah, yes, but my room is closer to the kitchen, where the ovens are,” Mycroft said gravely. “Theoretical physics must on occasion bend to the realities of applied engineering.”_

_“I see,” Sherlock said, just as another bolt of lightning flashed outside the window. A slap of thunder, and he was close enough to put his hand on the soft duvet. “We’d have to share,” he said tentatively._

_“True,” Mycroft said, voice heavy with regret. “But I promise I won’t snore.”_

_Sherlock snorted. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind,” he said, as casually as he could manage._

_“As long as it doesn’t become a habit,” Mycroft said, a smile in his voice, pushing back the covers._

_The next morning, Sherlock woke to bright sun streaming through the window, and the blankets securely tucked up under his chin. His slippers were on the floor next to the bed, and his dressing gown was thrown over the footboard. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen._

_Somewhere in the house, he could hear a radio, so the power was back on. He hadn’t heard the cook in the kitchen at all._

_The panic of the night before was gone; had been gone as soon as his head touched the pillow, really._

_He snuggled down into the duvet, and smiled. Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt._

Sherlock blinked back to the present, the memory still hovering on the edges of his mind. The hour would be up soon. Without any conscious decision, he rose to his feet and stumbled down the stairs, dropping into a chair at his favourite table by the window. It was just past twilight now. He could barely see the outline of the asters in their boxes.

Sherlock thought of calling his brother. Not to ask for help (too late, too late) but just to--chat. Five minutes, maybe. Teasing, poking, snippy banter--their messed up way of saying goodbye.

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft would see through it, read the awkward silence for the distress call it was, and would come charging over. He’d put himself at risk, and would do so gladly, all for his proud and foolish little brother.

Tears prickled at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. He couldn’t do that to Mycroft. He wouldn’t.

A black sedan pulled to the kerb in front of the pub and idled there, ominous in the new dark. Sherlock stared at it for a long moment, spreading his hands across the table as if in an unconscious attempt to hold on.

Then at last, he stood. He looked down at the phone in his hand and despite his fear, smirked faintly--he knew the first thing Moriarty would do was confiscate it, and at least if he left it, Mycroft would be able to figure out what had happened. It was the best he could do; maybe it would help to bring Moriarty down.

He took one last moment to look up into the camera over the bar, and winked.

Then he stood to his full height, straightened his shoulders, and walked over to the door and out.

As the door closed behind him, he heard his mobile start to buzz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With gratitude for the fierce beta services of Kedgeree (Kedgeree11) and 221bJen. This has not been an easy chapter, but they've stood by me and this chapter is infinitely better for their care. Any mistakes are entirely due to me being a stubborn arse.
> 
> I'll be writing the TV fusion challenge for the next four weeks, and then it's back to the pub. Thank you all for your patience and for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Skull and Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622256) by [bluebellofbakerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebellofbakerstreet/pseuds/bluebellofbakerstreet)




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